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DIPT.  OF 

Of    Aftft'l.     EOVCATION 

AKrlc. 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

Class 


OF    AGRICULTU.B£ 
OF     AGrt'L      EOVCATUJiN 


OF  THE 

[   UNIVERSITY   J 

OF 


IN  THE  OPEN 

INTIMATE  STUDIES 

AND  APPRECIATIONS  OF 

NATURE  BY 

STANTON  DAVIS  KIRKHAM 


AUTHOR  OF 


"WHERE  DWELLS  THE  SOUL  SERENE 
"THE  MINISTRY  OF  BEAUTY" 


"Over  and  above  a  healthy 
curiosity,  or  any  scientific 
acquaintance,  it  is  the  com- 
panionship of  the  woods 
and  fields  which  counts — 
a  real  friendship  for  birds 
and  bees  and  flowers" 


THE 
UNIVERSITY 

Of 
i£4UFGi 


PAUL  ELDER  &  COMPANY 

SAN  FRANCISCO  AND  NEW  YORK 
mi —  — 


Copyright,  1908 
by  PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 


TO  MY  WIFE 
MARY  WILLIAMS  KIRKHAM 

THIS  BOOK  IS 

AFFECTIONATELY 

DEDICATED 


201922 


PREFACE 

There  is  an  estate  on  which  we  pay  no 
tax  and  which  is  not  susceptible  of  improve- 
ment. It  is  of  indefinite  extent  and  is  to  be 
reached  by  taking  the  road  to  the  nearest 
woods  and  fields.  While  this  is  quite  as  val- 
uable as  any  property  we  may  possess,  as  a 
matter  of fatt  few  assert  their  title  to  it. 

Nature  is  in  herself  a  perpetual  invitation 
to  come  into  the  open.  The  woods  are  an  un- 
failing resource;  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
companionable.  To  count  among  one ' 's  friends, 
the  birds  and  flowers  and  trees  is  surely 
worth  while ;  for  to  come  upon  a  new  flower 
is  then  in  the  nature  of  an  agreeable  event, 
and  a  chance  meeting  with  a  bird  may  lend 
a  pleasant  flavor  to  the  day. 


CONTENTS 

PREFACE  v 

THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  i 

SIGNS  OF  SPRING  -  n 

BIRD  LIFE  -  22 

SONGS  OF  THE  WOODS  -    40 

WILD  GARDENS  56 

WEEDS     -  -    69 

INSECT  LORE     -  78 
THE  WAYS  OF  THE  ANT    -        -     94 

AUTUMN  STUDIES  -  113 

PASTURE  STONES  -  127 

NEIGHBORS  136 

THE  WINTER  WOODS  -  153 

LAUGHING  WATERS  164 

THE  MOUNTAINS  -  173 

THE  FOREST      -  185 

THE  SEA  -  196 
INDEX          .....       209 


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• 


THE  POINT  OF 
VIEW 


Nature  is  in  herself  a  perpetual  invitation :  the 
birds  call,  the  trees  beckon  and  the  winds  whisper 
to  us.  After  the  unfeeling  pavements,  the  yielding 
springy  turf  of  the  fields  has  a  sympathy  with  the 
feet  and  invites  us  to  walk.  It  is  good  to  hear 
again  the  fine  long-drawn  note  of  the  meadow- 
lark  —  voice  of  the  early  year, —  the  first  blue- 
bird's warble,  the  field-sparrow's  trill,  the  untamed 
melody  of  the  kinglet  —  a  magic  flute  in  the  wil- 
derness—  and  to  see  the  ruby  crown  of  the  be- 
loved sprite.  It  is  good  to  inhale  the  mint  crushed 
underfoot  and  to  roll  between  the  fingers  the  new 
leaves  of  the  sweetbrier;  to  see  again  the  first 
anemones  —  the  wind-children, —  the  mandrake's 
canopies,  the  nestling  erythronium  and  the  spring 
beauty,  like  a  delicate  carpet ;  or  to  seek  the  clin- 
tonia  in  its  secluded  haunts,  and  to  feel  the  old 
childlike  joy  at  sight  of  lady's-slippers. 

It  is  worth  while  to  be  out-of-doors  all  of  one 
day,  now  and  then,  and  to  really  know  what  is 


IN  THE  OPEN  |  [ 


morning  and  what  evening;  to  observe  the  prog- 
ress of  the  day  as  one  might  attend  a  speftacle, 
though  this  requires  leisure  and  a  free  mind.  The 
spirit  of  the  woods  will  not  lend  itself  to  a  mere 
fair-weather  devotion.  You  must  cast  in  your  lot 
with  the  wild  and  take  such  weather  as  befalls. 
If  you  do  not  now  and  then  spend  a  day  in  the 
snow,  you  miss  some  impressions  that  no  fair 
weather  can  give.  When  you  have  walked  for  a 
time  in  the  spring  shower,  you  have  a  new  and 
larger  sympathy  with  the  fields.  The  shining 
leaves,  glistening  twigs,  jeweled  cobwebs  and  the 
gentle  cadence  of  the  falling  rain  all  tell  you  it  is 
no  time  to  stay  indoors. 

Life  in  the  woods  sharpens  the  nose,  the  eyes, 
the  ears.  There  are  nose-feasts,  eye-feasts,  ear- 
feasts.  What  if  the  frost-grapes  are  sour  —  they 
are  fair  to  look  at.  Some  things  are  for  the  palate 
and  some  for  the  eye.  The  fragrance  of  blackber- 
ries is  as  delicate  as  the  flavor,  a  spicy  aroma,  a 
woodsy  bouquet,  and  to  eat  without  seeing  or 
smelling  is  to  lose  much.  Clustered  cherries,  so 
lustrous  black  with  their  red  stems,  refresh  the 
inner  and  the  outer  man.  You  may  safely  become 
a  gourmand  with  respeft  to  these  wild  flavors. 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW7]  [ 


Their  virtue  is  of  the  volatile  sort  that  will  not  stand 
bottling;  it  will  not  enter  into  essence  or  tinc- 
ture. You  must  yourself  go  out  and  pick  the  cherry 
under  a  September  sky  and  in  the  presence  of  the 
first  glowing  leaves  of  sumac  and  Virginia  creeper. 
Does  not  the  bayberry  revive  and  exhilarate  the 
walker,  as  smelling-salts  restore  fainting  women? 
You  have  but  to  roll  the  waxen  berry  in  the 
fingers,  or  crush  the  leaf,  to  feel  that  indefinable 
thrill  which  belongs  to  the  woods,  to  the  open 
air  —  the  free  life.  Another  vigorous  and  stimu- 
lating odor  is  the  fragrance  of  green  butternuts, 
which  contains  the  goodness,  the  sweetness,  the 
very  marrow  of  the  woods,  and  calls  out  the  natu- 
ral and  unaffedted,  as  a  strain  of  music  arouses  the 
heroic.  The  tartness  of  the  barberry  matches  the 
crispness  of  the  air  and  rebukes  the  lack  of  vigor 
in  us.  No  true  child  can  resist  the  lure  of  winter- 
green  berries,  while  to  nibble  the  bark  of  a  fresh 
young  sassafras  shoot  admits  us  to  some  closer  as- 
sociation with  Nature.  A  whiff  of  balsam  is  an  } 
invitation  to  share  the  abandon  of  the  woods,  and 
awakens  memories  of  the  halcyon  days,  the  shining 
hours,  when  nutting  and  berrying  were  the  real 
things  of  life. 


IN  THE  OPEN  [  [ 


One  who  is  possessed  with  the  idea  of  finding  a 
certain  bird  or  plant  is  in  a  fair  way  to  the  dis- 
covery, and  sooner  or  later  each  will  come  into 
the  field  of  vision.  How  the  robin  discovers  the 
worm  is  a  mystery  to  be  explained  on  the  score 
of  attention ;  it  is  perfedt  concentration  on  a  single 
point,  with  faculties  trained  in  that  direction. 
That  the  footsteps  of  ants  were  audible  had  not 
occurred  to  me  till  one  day  in  watching  the  prog- 
ress of  the  annual  raid  of  the  red  ants  upon  the 
black  colonies,  I  plainly  heard  the  patter  of  their 
feet,  as  the  column  marched  at  double-quick  over 
the  floor  of  dry  leaves.  There  are  many  sounds  in 
Nature  that  only  become  evident  when  we  give 
absolute  attention,  when  we  become  all  ear, —  as 
there  are  things  seen  only  when  we  become  for 
the  time  an  eye. 

Sensitive  and  sympathetic  natures  rarely  confuse 
one  person  with  another,  whereas  the  cold  or 
obtuse  really  never  see  the  finer  distinctions  in  a 
face.  They  make  poor  observers.  Any  one  un- 
acquainted with  birds  will  show  by  an  attempted 
description  that  he  has  not  in  the  least  seen  the 
bird.  I  have  known  old  lumbermen  who  had  not 
noticed  the  difference  in  the  needles  of  the  species 


I 

THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  1  1 

of  pine,  nor  the  leaves  of  oaks ;  but  they  knew  the 
difference  in  the  quality  of  the  wood  well  enough, 
because  that  appealed  to  their  interest  and  held 
their  attention. 

Preparedness  adds  zest  to  the  walk  and  enriches 
it,  precisely  as  a  broad  culture  and  a  fund  of  in- 
formation enlarge  the  view  of  the  traveler.  Not- 
withstanding what  may  be  in  the  woods,  it  takes 
some  understanding  and  some  interest  to  see  it. 
An  unprepared  person  will  see  little;  an  uninter- 
ested person  will  see  nothing.  To  many  of  the 
villagers  the  wood-lot  is  a  remote  and  unfamiliar 
wilderness,  and  the  warblers  and  vireos  as  unknown 
as  any  tropic  bird.  We  should  at  least  know  the 
kinglets  by  their  caste-mark — whether  it  be  red 
or  yellow  —  and  the  oriole  by  the  colors  of  his 
ancient  line. 

Given  a  certain  preparedness  even  the  rocks 
become  instincl:  with  suggestion.  They  are  more 
than  stone, —  even  historical  reminders,  which  in- 
cite one  to  long  and  pleasing  trains  of  thought. 
In  the  mountains  I  came  upon  a  flat  ledge  of 
shale  which  showed  ripple  marks  of  an  earlier  sea 
than  any  we  know,  a  far-off  Devonian  ocean  which 
once  washed  this  primitive  beach.  They  had  long 


IN  THE  OPEN 


parted  company,  and  now  the  beach  was  up  among 
the  spruce  and  balsams, —  such  vicissitudes  are  there 
in  the  fortunes  of  all.  The  ancient  waters  had 
left  their  mark,  that  however  high  the  rock  might 
go,  it  should  none  the  less  speak  of  the  mother 
sea.  Again,  the  traces  of  glaciation  on  ledges  and 
boulders  appeal  to  the  imagination  with  a  peculiar 
eloquence.  What  a  mighty  cosmic  plane  was  that 
which  smoothed  these  granite  ledges!  It  planed 
off  New  England  as  if  it  were  a  knot  on  a  plank, 
and  scattered  over  it  the  dust  and  chips  of  the 
workshop.  These  ledges  serve  as  a  fairly  accurate 
compass,  and  are  at  least  more  reliable  than  the 
lichens  on  the  trees. 

Some  men  have  an  eye  for  trees  and  an  inborn 
sympathy  with  these  rooted  giants,  as  if  the  same 
sap  ran  in  their  own  veins.  To  them  trees  have  a 
personality  quite  as  animals  have,  and,  to  be  sure, 
there  are  "  characters "  among  trees.  I  knew  a 
solitary  yellow  pine  which  towered  in  the  land- 
scape, the  last  of  its  race.  Its  vast  columnar  trunk 
seemed  to  loom  and  expand  as  one  approached. 
Always  there  was  distant  music  in  the  boughs 
above,  a  noble  strain  descending  from  the  clouds. 
Its  song  was  more  majestic  than  that  of  any  other 

6 


||  THE 

POINT 

OF 

VIEW 

tree,  and  fell  upon  the  listening  ear  with  the  far- 
off  cadence  of  the  surf,  but  sweeter  and  more 
lyrical,  as  if  it  might  proceed  from  some  celestial 
harp.  Though  there  was  not  a  breeze  stirring  be- 
low, this  vast  tree  hummed  its  mighty  song.  Ap- 
parently its  branches  had  penetrated  to  another 
world  than  this,  some  sphere  of  unceasing  melody. 
There  is  a  difference  in  the  voices  of  trees. 
Some  with  difficulty  utter  any  note,  or  answer  to 
the  storm  alone;  others  only  sigh  and  shiver. 
There  are  days  when  they  gently  murmur  together, 
as  if  a  rumor  of  general  interest  had  reached  them. 
Again  the  woods  are  silent,  until  one  enters  a 
grove  of  white  pines,  when  on  the  instant  a  sweet 
low  chant  falls  on  the  ear.  Come  upon  the  aspen 
on  quiet  days  and  it  is  all  of  a  tremor,  in  a  little 
ecstasy  by  itself,  while  the  rest  are  mute.  Trees 
change  their  songs  with  the  season.  In  winter  the 
whistling,  rattling,  roaring  of  hickories  and  oaks 
is  a  veritable  witch-song,  beside  which  the  voices 
of  midsummer  days  are  as  the  cooing  of  doves. 
During  a  quiet  snowfall,  the  white  crystals  sifting 
through  the  pines  convey  the  idea  of  a  gentle  so- 
ciability somewhere  in  the  branches  overhead,  the 
softly  whispered  and  amiable  gossip  of  pine-needles 


IN  THE  OPEN 

and  snowflakes,  old  cronies  who  have  not  met  in 
the  past  eight  months. 

The  woods  offer  unlimited  opportunity  for  mak- 
ing acquaintances,  and  nothing  else  stimulates  the 
interest  more  than  this.  The  keenest  pleasure  is 
in  meeting  a  new  bird:  a  rare  and  subtle  stimulus 
not  to  be  defined,  to  be  experienced  only  and  cher- 
ished as  a  memory.  You  stand  in  the  midst  of 
one  of  the  mixed  flocks  of  autumn  —  winter  visit- 
ants with  a  sprinkling  of  warblers,  and  perhaps  a 
blue-headed  vireo  and  a  pair  of  silent  thrushes  — 
and  recognize  old  friends,  with  a  chance  of  dis- 
covering a  stranger.  It  calls  out  the  zest  for  the 
woods  like  an  appetite  for  dinner  —  a  finer,  more 
ethereal  appetite,  which  is  satisfied  through  the  eye 
and  ear.  Occasionally  the  blue-headed  vireo  may 
be  heard,  though  the  season  is  far  advanced,  and 
the  little  Parula  warbler  indulges  in  a  spiritual  and 
melodious  reverie,  as  if  he  already  had  visions  of 
another  spring  and  was  communicating  in  a  state 
of  trance  and  ecstasy  his  prophetic  thought. 

One  supremely  mellow  day  the  last  of  October, 
there  came  a  pair  of  hermits  to  a  secluded  spot, 
flitting  into  a  white  oak,  where  they  remained  re- 
garding me  with  round  bright  eyes.  In  due  season 

S 


1 

THE  POINT  OF  VIEW 

they  crossed  to  the  pine  under  which  I  sat,  where- 
upon one,  dire&ly  over  my  head,  began  cautiously 
descending  from  branch  to  branch  through  the 
lower  dead  limbs  until  he  was  but  a  few  feet  from 
my  face.  Here  he  sat,  regarding  me  in  a  gentle 
friendly  way  and  talking  to  himself  in  an  under- 
tone—  or  was  he  talking  to  me?  The  impelling 
force  continued  to  draw  my  little  friend  —  it  was 
mutual  did  he  but  know,  a  true  case  of  love  at 
sight  —  for  at  last,  with  an  indescribable  little 
flutter,  he  dropped  from  his  perch  with  the  evi- 
dent intent  of  alighting  upon  me,  but  changed  his 
course  dire&ly  in  my  face,  and  with  a  swift  mo- 
tion of  the  wings  darted  into  the  shrubbery.  Upon 
a  near  view  the  spell  had  broken,  and  he  was 
again  the  timid  solitary  thrush. 

It  is  because  the  wild  life  is  so  shy  and  elusive 
that  the  unexpected  encounters  have  such  charm. 
They  are  altogether  clandestine  and  romantic.  You 
may  stroll  time  and  again  without  the  least  en- 
couragement, as  though  wholly  ostracized  from  this 
society ;  and  then  some  morning  you  are  wel- 
comed on  every  hand  and  admitted  to  the  inner 
circle  of  the  wood  life.  About  the  woods  there  is 
ever  an  enticing  mystery.  They  invite  us  to  enter 

9 


1 

|  IN  THE  OPEN  || 

as  though  they  concealed  some  treasure  we  sought. 
A  race  dwells  here  apart,  and  we  turn  aside  for 
that  silent  and  refreshing  company.  When  they 
speak,  their  speech  is  lyrical.  There  are  men  who 
have  never  known  any  friendship  in  Nature ;  others 
again  who  never  outgrow  the  love  of  birds  and 
flowers,  who  preserve  some  youthfulness  and  inno- 
cence which  keeps  them  in  touch  with  wild  life. 
Over  and  above  a  healthy  curiosity,  or  any  scien- 
tific acquaintance,  it  is  the  companionship  of  the 
woods  and  fields  which  counts  —  a  real  friendship 
for  birds  and  bees  and  flowers.  Let  us  remember 
the  woods  in  the  days  of  our  youth,  that  we  may 
have  this  unfailing  resource  in  later  years. 


10 


SIGNS  OF  SPRING 


The  approach  of  spring  is  felt,  rather  than  rea- 
soned about.  There  is  that  in  us  which  rises  to 
greet  the  incoming  tide  of  the  year  before  our 
eyes  have  apprised  us  of  any  change.  Winter  lies 
over  the  world  much  as  ashes  are  banked  on  coals 
for  the  night,  which  nevertheless  retain  their  heat 
and  will  be  found  alive  and  glowing  in  the  morn- 
ing. In  the  tropics  the  fire  is  not  banked  and 
there  is  no  cold  dawn  with  anticipations  of  the 
kindly  blaze  soon  to  arise,  no  gradual  uncovering 
of  the  cheerful  coals.  Here  in  New  England  the 
dawn  is  rigorous  and  spring  more  welcome.  The 
winter  buds  are  evidence  that  it  is  not  far  away, 
and  it  takes  but  the  least  encouragement  at  any 
time  for  this  latent  heat  and  life  to  awake  and  show 
itself  in  the  high  blueberry  twigs.  Such  buoyant 
faith  has  the  skunk-cabbage  it  never  entirely  loses 
sight  of  spring,  but  exerts  some  spell  over  its 
muddy  bed,  whereby  you  may  see  that  there,  at 
least,  it  has  already  come  in  November. 


1 1 


||  IN  THE  OPEN 

The  reddening  of  the  twigs  is  in  effect  a  pre- 
lude, and  precedes  the  real  spring  as  dawn  precedes 
daylight,  or  twilight  the  night;  this  is  the  dawn 
of  the  year  and  these  blueberry  twigs  its  first  flush. 
Smilax  turns  suddenly  green  as  the  sap  circulates  in 
its  spiny  stems,  and  the  brown  and  sear  aspedl:  of 
the  earth  is  relieved  and  enlivened.  This  early 
green  is  as  refreshing  to  the  eye  as  the  first  rhu- 
barb to  the  palate. 

One  of  the  earliest  signs  is  the  little  rosette 
of  bright-colored  leaves  on  the  smaller  hair-cap 
mosses,  growing  in  contact  with  an  outcropping 
ledge.  You  may  see  whole  patches  in  the  pastures, 
varying  from  orange  to  deep  red,  a  vivid  bit  of 
color  next  the  brown  earth  and  looking  like 
diminutive  blossoms.  Then  come  the  fruiting 
spikes  of  the  common  field  horsetails,  poking  out 
of  some  sand-bank.  These  signs  of  the  awakening 
season  appeal  to  the  trained  eye  rather  than  to  the 
casual  glance.  Such  an  one  detects  the  slightest 
swelling  of  a  leaf-bud,  the  faint  reddening  of  a 
twig,  the  deeper  green  of  another.  The  sap  drip- 
ping from  the  freshly  cut  limb  of  a  birch,  or 
pendent  from  the  wound  in  a  long  glittering 
icicle,  is  evidence  of  the  quickened  circulation  of 

12 


]  I  SIGNS  OF  SPRING  [[ 


the  earth.  Among  the  thick  mat  of  dry  leaves 
you  may  perhaps  find  the  delicate  shoots  of  wood 
anemones,  and  in  the  swamps  the  tightly  rolled 
stipes  of  the  osmunda,  like  little  croziers,  while 
there  is  ice  yet  in  the  leaves  of  the  pitcher-plant. 

Deep  lying  in  all  men  is  a  poetic  vein  which 
now  appears  on  the  surface.  The  first  pussy-wil- 
lows and  the  arrival  of  bluebirds  arouse  sentiments 
as  common  to  us  as  the  love  of  music :  some  sug- 
gestion of  renewal,  of  awakening  after  the  sleep 
of  winter,  which  touches  even  the  rough  man  and 
makes  him  kin  for  a  day  to  the  child.  We  em- 
bark each  year  on  the  sea  of  winter,  with  unques- 
tioning faith  that  on  its  other  shore  spring  awaits 
us,  once  more  to  shake  the  violets  from  her  lap. 
When,  in  March,  that  shore  looms  in  the  distance, 
we  feel  the  joy  of  travelers  in  sight  of  their  native 
land.  There  may  be  rough  seas,  and  March  winds 
are  blustery,  but  there  in  sight,  nevertheless,  is  that 
faint  outline  on  the  horizon. 

No  blossoming  rod  of  Aaron  could  appear 
more  miraculous  than  do  the  flowering  willows. 
These  twigs  of  brown  and  lifeless  asped:  suddenly 
burst  into  bloom  and  array  themselves  in  exquisite 
silvery  gray  catkins,  while  the  snow  may  be  still 

'3 


1 

IN  THE  OPEN 

i 

on  the  ground.  Not  long  after,  the  alders  in  the 
swamp  unfold  their  clusters  of  drooping  aments 
which  have  been  on  the  tree  stiff  and  rigid 
throughout  the  winter.  Thousands  of  little  tails 
are  thus  mysteriously  hung  out  on  the  alder  twigs 
to  sway  gently  in  the  breeze,  turning  from  a  red- 
dish hue  to  a  sulphur-yellow  as  they  expand  and 
become  powdered  with  pollen.  Born  into  a  frosty 
world  when  the  feeble  sun  is  still  distant  and  cold, 
the  March  flowers  are  a  link  between  winter  and 
spring.  But  Nature  has  certainly  relaxed  her  fea- 
tures; there  is  just  the  ghost  of  a  smile  on  her  icy 
lips. 

This  year  I  heard  the  bluebird's  warble  on  the 
4th  of  February,  but  did  not  see  the  bird,  and 
heard  no  more  till  early  in  March,  when  they 
came  in  flocks.  Out  of  the  sky  comes  to  us  this 
liquid  note,  as  if  the  heavens  had  opened  and 
poured  upon  us  their  benedi&ion.  How  sweet  it 
is  to  the  ear,  what  music  to  the  heart !  And  when 
suddenly  a  little  flock  starts  up  from  the  wall  or 
fence,  how  rich  and  welcome  to  the  eye,  long 
denied  its  modicum  of  color,  is  the  blue  of  their 
backs!  We  have  had  little  but  artificial  tastes  and 
colors  and  perfumes  for  so  long  that  the  senses 


]  I  SIGNS  OF  SPRING 


seize  with  avidity  these  first  offerings  —  we  are 
hungry  for  them. 

It  changes  the  whole  aspedt  of  things,  when  on 
some  raw  day  the  first  redwing  of  the  season 
appears  —  a  vivid  bit  of  color  in  the  bleak  swamp, 
a  hopeful  and  melodious  voice  breaking  the  silence 
of  the  year.  The  birds  are  shy  and  elusive  on 
their  arrival  and  we  have  every  year  to  become 
acquainted  again.  Even  the  robins  are  furtive  and 
silent,  flitting  in  the  sheltered  swamps;  but  the 
middle  of  March  finds  them  calling  to  each  other 
in  their  old  jocular  way.  Drawn  by  the  same 
subtle  influence,  the  angleworm  seems  to  work 
toward  the  surface  about  the  time  the  robin  is 
thinking  of  the  lawn,  till  one  day  they  meet  as  by 
appointment.  If  the  season  is  late,  the  worm  re- 
tires below  where  it  is  less  frosty,  and  the  robin 
takes  to  the  sumac  berries,  or  whatever  else  he  can 
find,  and  defers  his  spring  relish  a  little  longer. 

Round  about  there  is  an  awakening  as  from  an 
enchanted  sleep ;  the  drowsy  world  yawns  and 
stretches.  The  highhole  is  in  evidence,  and  his 
rattling  call  is  calculated  to  awake  the  sleepers  in 
that  pasture  at  least.  Soon  the  chipmunk  is  on  the 
wall,  and  the  woodchuck  warily  pokes  his  head 

'5 


IN  THE  OPEN 

from  his  burrow.  This  note  of  the  highhole  is 
irrepressibly  exuberant  and  ringing  with  energy.  If 
it  does  not  prove  a  tonic  to  you,  nothing  else  will. 
He  is  even  more  emphatic  in  his  drumming.  His 
lively  tattoo  goes  well  with  his  vigorous  call.  Time 
to  be  up  and  doing !  Wake  up  !  Wake  up  !  Wake  up  ! 
Wake  up!  Wake  up! 

Presently  the  first  flock  of  fox-sparrows  drop 
down  from  somewhere  and  go  to  scratching  among 
the  leaves,  like  so  many  chickens.  The  present 
season  a  flock  of  perhaps  fifty  settled  in  and  around 
a  thicket  on  March  24th.  Their  bold  clear  notes 
could  be  heard  some  distance  away,  and  drew  one 
in  that  dire&ion.  Numbers  of  them  were  hopping 
about,  and  occasionally  a  bird  would  rise  to  a 
branch  overhead  and  sing,  looking  like  a  hermit- 
thrush  as  his  back  was  turned.  The  place  was 
given  over  to  the  sparrows,  and  never  was  thicket 
more  tuneful.  There  was  the  sound  of  unceasing 
revelry  —  a  sylvan  and  melodious  revelry. 

At  this  season  the  impulse  to  expression  is  natu- 
ral and  daily  becomes  more  evident.  Even  the 
crow  begins  to  afFedt  music  and  to  show  off  his 
accomplishments.  But  it  is  Mile.  Corbeau,  and 
not  M.  Reynard,  that  incites  him  to  this  exhibi- 

16 


SIGNS  OF  SPRING  |  [ 


tion  of  vanity.  You  may  hear  him  in  the  pine 
grove,  apparently  gargling  his  throat,  which  is 
meant  for  a  gay  roulade  to  please  the  ear  of  some 
dusky  beauty  lingering  near  and  perhaps  affeding 
indifference.  This  is  only  a  prelude  to  the  aston- 
ishing falsetto  that  sometimes  follows,  and  which, 
be  it  hoped,  may  prove  more  acceptable  to  Mile. 
Corbeau  than  to  our  more  critical  ears.  It  is  very 
evident  something  is  going  on.  The  large  flocks 
of  winter  have  given  away  to  small  and  excited 
bands  which  keep  up  a  perpetual  clamor.  It  is  no 
surprise,  then,  some  day  in  March  to  detedt  a  crow 
carrying  twigs. 

At  no  other  time  is  there  such  concerted  sing- 
ing among  the  song-sparrows  as  in  these  first  days 
of  the  arrival  of  any  considerable  flocks.  From 
bare  fields  and  brown  hedgerows  arises  this  simple 
and  spontaneous  expression  of  joy,  a  primitive  in- 
vocation to  the  goddess  Spring,  fresh  and  clear 
and  innocent  as  the  morning  itself.  As  they  hop 
about  among  the  dry  weeds,  one  will  now  and 
then  pick  up  a  straw  and  hold  it  meditatively  a 
moment  with  some  premonition  of  the  nest.  Pres- 
ently they  will  be  flitting  among  the  still  leafless 
brambles  and  briers  with  an  air  of  secrecy  and  im- 


IN  THE  OPEN 

portance.  Some  bright  morning  in  March  there 
comes  to  the  listening  ear  the  song  of  the  purple 
finch  —  a  wild  sweet  strain  with  the  abandon  of 
gipsy  music,  which  thrills  with  its  very  wildness 
and  unrestraint.  Anon  Phoebe  arrives  with  dry 
little  voice  and  familiar  swoop  after  the  first  incau- 
tious fly. 

Every  season  has  its  characteristic  song.  More 
than  all  others  is  the  voice  of  the  hyla,  essentially 
springlike  and  to  be  associated  with  no  other  time. 
For  several  days  there  has  been  an  occasional  des- 
ultory chirp  from  the  woods,  when  of  a  sudden, 
some  clear  evening,  there  comes  out  of  the  stillness 
that  wonderfully  sweet  piping  of  little  frogs.  Fresh 
and  ringing  as  child  voices,  it  has,  at  a  distance, 
a  certain  rhythm,  a  soothing  cadence,  which  lulls 
the  ear  like  the  musical  patter  of  rain-drops  in 
summer  showers.  Put  your  ear  close  to  one  —  if 
you  can  find  him  —  and  the  sound  is  deafening,  so 
loud  and  shrill  it  pierces  to  the  very  marrow.  The 
small  creature  sits  in  some  low  shrub  in  the 
swamp,  grasping  a  twig  on  either  side  as  with  tiny 
hands,  while  it  inflates  its  air-sac  from  time  to 
time  and  sings  the  love-song  of  its  race.  Heard 
afar,  how  soft  and  pleasing  are  these  answering 

18 


SIGNS  OF  SPRING 

calls  of  the  hylas  which  are  the  very  voice  of  the 
evening  itself. 

About  the  time  the  hylas  begin  to  sing  in 
chorus,  you  may  look  for  the  appearance  of  the 
leopard-frog.  He  is  to  be  heard  at  midday  in  his 
pond  uttering  a  most  deliberate  and  prolonged 
snore,  evenly  and  smoothly  drawn  out,  as  if  his 
sleep  were  dreamless  and  content.  Presently  there 
is  an  answering  snore,  full  as  deliberate  and  serene, 
from  across  the  pond,  followed  by  long  intervals 
of  silence.  Very  different  from  this  somnolent  song 
of  the  leopard-frog  is  the  shrilling  of  garden- toads. 
Not  every  one  would  recognize  the  solemn  and 
dusty  toad  of  the  flower-beds,  that  flops  from  under 
the  feet  in  the  dusk,  in  this  brighter  colored 
creature,  floating  at  full  length  in  the  shallow 
water,  his  air-sac  inflated  before  him  like  a  parti- 
colored bubble.  The  shrilling  of  toads  fills  the 
air;  they  are  under  a  spell,  a  witchery,  which 
has  set  them  all  to  chanting  this  single  strain  — 
high-pitched  and  subdued  —  with  a  sort  of  mild 
frenzy. 

April  brings  the  twittering  of  tree-swallows, 
and  spreads  a  tinge  of  color  like  a  faint  red  mist 
over  the  swamps.  This  flower  of  the  maple  is  one 

'9 


||  IN 

THE  OPEN 

1 

whose  virtues  are  seldom  sung,  as  though  the 
blossoms  of  trees  counted  for  little.  Surely  the 
bursting  of  silver-gray  rods  into  this  vivid  bloom 
is  an  event  worthy  the  muse.  It  is  not  only  in 
autumn  the  red  maple  graces  the  swamp.  These 
modest  blossoms  of  the  early  year  —  willow,  alder, 
poplar,  elm,  maple  —  must  have  their  place  in  the 
flower  calendar,  are  worthy  a  Festival  of  Trees, 
to  be  associated  with  the  song  of  the  hyla. 

Anything  like  an  exacl:  flower  calendar  is  out  of 
the  question,  for  much  depends  on  the  locality 
and  the  season.  We  look  for  bloodroot  and 
hepatica  to  follow  arbutus,  and  yet  I  have  on 
occasion  found  bluets  several  weeks  in  advance  of 
these.  The  saxifrage  is  perhaps  quite  as  early  as 
any,  though  I  have  seen  the  buds  of  the  marsh- 
marigold  about  to  open  on  the  25th  of  March. 
Much  depends  on  which  has  the  more  favorable 
spot  in  any  locality.  In  a  warm  nook,  on  the 
1 3th  of  April,  bloodroot,  hepatica,  spring-beauty, 
early  saxifrage,  dicentra,  wood-  and  rue-anemones 
and  adder's-tongue,  as  well  as  common  blue  and 
long-spurred  violets,  were  blooming  together  in 
profusion.  The  saxifrage  and  bloodroot  might,  of 
course,  have  been  seen  a  week  earlier.  In  the 

20 


SIGNS  OF  SPRING  |  [ 


same  spot  several  days  later,  columbines,  miterwcrt 
and  groundnut,  and  also  sweet  white  violets, 
downy  yellow  and  lance -leaved  violets,  were 
added  to  the  list  and  were  followed  by  bellworts 
and  wood-betony.  This  was  in  northern  New 
Jersey.  Meanwhile  I  had  seen  only  the  common 
blue  violets  in  the  Connecticut  Valley,  while  in 
eastern  Massachusetts  the  wrood-anemones  were  not 
in  bloom,  and  the  leaf  of  the  columbine  had  just 
appeared  above  the  soil.  This  particular  spot  was 
evidently  a  sort  of  natural  forcing  ground  where 
the  columbine  was  made  to  bloom  with  the  blood- 
root.  What  becomes  of  your  flower  calendar  here  ? 
Looking  still  for  signs  of  spring,  I  came  full  upon 
the  fickle  goddess  herself. 

Before  we  know  it,  the  migration  of  warblers 
has  begun  and  the  keen  ear  detects  their  thin  wiry 
notes.  But  this  is  not  so  much  a  sign  as  it  is  the 
fulfilling  of  prophecies. 


BIRD  LIFE 


Walking  through  bare  fields  in  the  chill  and 
birdless  world  some  winter  days,  it  is  brought 
home  to  us  what  an  essential  feature  of  our  sur- 
roundings the  birds  are,  what  a  lack  there  is  when 
they  are  absent!  A  certain  poverty  lies  over  the 
earth;  the  sky  is  no  longer  complete  without  a 
swift  or  a  martin.  Birds  are  part  of  the  landscape; 
it  is  they  which  animate  it.  Rarely,  when  it  seems 
most  destitute,  a  flock  of  snow-buntings  will  come 
swirling  over  the  pasture,  like  great  snowflakes 
driven  before  the  blast.  Again,  as  the  wind  will 
pick  up  dry  snow  and  blow  it  over  the  field,  they 
are  off  and  whirling  away,  glittering  in  the  pale 
yellow  light  of  the  winter  day  as  they  wheel  and 
come  to  the  ground.  But  their  presence  has  re- 
deemed and  softened  the  austere  landscape,  made 
the  earth  habitable  once  more  and  the  bare  fields 
friendly  and  companionable. 

The  first  snipe  and  plover  in  the  spring  remind 
us  what  stay-at-homes  are  we,  what  wanderers 

22 


]|  BIRD  LIFE 


they.  We  must  appear  to  them  but  poor  mollusks, 
as  they  come  and  go  each  year  on  their  way  from 
Patagonia  to  the  Arctic  Circle.  In  how  many 
States,  in  what  diversity  of  climes  they  are  at 
home !  And  wherever  they  may  be  they  get  their 
own  living  by  no  one's  favor.  This  prodigious 
self-reliance  affed:s  one  as  a  species  of  heroism, 
whereas  it  is  as  unconscious  as  the  falling  rain. 

What  familiarity  with  the  elements  and  with 
natural  features  of  the  earth  the  migrating  birds 
must  acquire  —  with  winds  and  clouds,  with  moun- 
tain chains  and  rivers  and  coast  lines !  They  know 
the  landmarks  and  guide-posts  of  two  continents 
and  can  find  their  own  way.  The  whistle  of  cur- 
lew, or  the  honk  of  wild  geese  high  in  the  air, 
seems  a  greeting  out  of  the  clouds  from  these  cos- 
mopolites, to  us,  sitting  rooted  to  the  earth  be- 
neath. A  flock  of  wild  geese  on  the  wing  is  no 
less  than  an  inspiration.  When  that  strong-voiced, 
stout-hearted  company  of  pioneers  pass  overhead, 
our  thoughts  ascend  and  sail  with  them  over  the 
roofs  of  the  world.  As  band  after  band  come  into 
the  field  of  vision  —  minute  glittering  specks  in 
the  distant  blue  —  to  cross  the  golden  sea  of  the 
sunset  and  disappear  in  the  northern  twilight,  their 

23 


IN  THE  OPEN 

faint  melodious  honk  is  an  Orphean  strain  drawing 
irresistibly. 

A  sort  of  noble  madness  seizes  the  birds  in  the 
spring,  so  that  an  exodus  of  inconceivable  extent 
takes  place  toward  the  North,  as  though  the  Pole 
were  a  magnet  to  them.  There  is  a  suggestion  of 
epic  splendor  in  this  vast  impulse,  this  flight  of 
the  feathered  tribes  of  the  earth.  We  may  well 
ask  the  bobolink,  What  news  from  Brazil?  and 
the  returning  plover,  What  of  the  Frozen  Sea? 
What  bird-memories  do  they  cherish  of  these  re- 
mote regions?  It  casts  a  halo  of  romance  about 
them,  that  they  should  thus  be  at  home  in  lands 
that  may  perhaps  remain  ever  unvisited  by  us. 

As  if  actuated  by  a  sublime  faith,  in  the  midst 
of  plenty  they  arise  and  depart,  drawn  ever  to 
the  remote  solitudes  to  rear  their  young,  like 
those  citizens  who  return  to  their  own  country 
that  their  children  may  be  born  in  the  Fatherland. 
I  do  not  know  if  our  affinity  is  greater  with  the 
bob-white  and  the  ruffed  grouse,  which  hear  no 
call  to  depart,  or  with  these  nomads  of  the  earth, 
In  the  coldest  weather,  redpolls,  crossbills  and 
snow-buntings  come  to  us  as  to  a  land  of  plenty. 
This  is  near  enough  the  equator  for  these  hardy 

24 


||BIRD 

LIFE 

birds  —  this  is  their  genial  South.  It  is  pleasant  to 
reflect  that  the  falling  mercury,  which  deprives  us 
of  the  last  of  the  summer  residents,  will  at  the 
same  time  bring  us  some  dweller  in  the  far  North 
which  perhaps  otherwise  we  should  not  see. 

The  advancing  season  makes  itself  known 
through  the  songsters;  they  have  keener  percep- 
tions and  receive  other  intimations  than  come  to 
us.  Day  by  day,  as  by  appointment,  they  reappear 
from  Florida,  from  the  Amazon  and  the  Orinoco, 
and  make  themselves  at  home  again  in  northern 
pastures.  I  have  come  to  look  for  the  tree-swal- 
lows as  regularly  on  the  ist  of  April,  as  for  the 
oriole  on  the  i  oth  of  May,  as  if  these  were  calen- 
dar events  of  real  importance.  Between  the  middle 
of  April  and  the  2Oth  of  May  lie  the  incompara- 
ble days  of  the  migrating  warblers  —  days  of  dis- 
covery and  adventure,  when  the  torpor  of  indiffer- 
ence slips  away,  and,  like  a  subtle  fire  in  the  blood, 
is  felt  that  enthusiasm  the  years  do  not  diminish. 
When,  at  night,  the  small  birds  pass  overhead,  their 
faint  silvery  "  tseeps  "  come  out  of  the  silence  with  a 
weird  suggestion  of  voices  from  the  unseen  world. 

Now,  the  days  are  full  of  pleasing  suggestions 
because  of  little  birds  shyly  flitting  with  plant- 


]  I  IN  THE  OPEN 


down  and  with  rootlets  and  dried  grasses.  Some 
are  unmistakably  house-hunting,  and  the  female 
turns  herself  about  in  the  crotch  of  a  limb,  trying 
if  it  be  of  the  right  proportions.  Interest  in  bird 
life  centers  about  this  season.  This  is  their  life; 
the  rest  is  a  preparation  or  a  waiting.  It  is  only 
natural  there  should  be  an  air  of  secrecy  about 
them  now.  They  are  doing  their  best  to  conceal 
and  elude,  as  indeed  they  must,  and  this  necessity, 
being  uppermost  in  their  minds,  becomes  evident 
in  their  manner. 

While  I  am  watching  a  pair  of  pewees  gather 
lichens  from  an  old  maple  for  their  beautiful  shal- 
low nest,  the  barn-swallows  shoot  by  with  mud 
for  their  adobe  huts.  Now  and  then  one  pulls 
from  the  mud  a  few  fine  rootlets  —  perhaps  of  the 
white  violet  or  gold  thread  growing  there  —  and 
carries  them  off.  They  evidently  know  their  trade. 
A  chestnut  warbler  appears  with  some  plant-fiber 
in  her  bill,  and  gives  a  cluck  of  surprise  and  dis- 
gust to  find  some  one  on  the  ground  where  she 
thought  to  have  her  secluded  and  private  estate. 
She  hesitates  with  the  down  still  in  her  bill;  it  is 
evident  what  she  must  be  thinking;  but  at  length 
she  decides  to  risk  it,  and  enters  the  huckleberries. 

26 


]|BIRD  LIFE 


She  has,  of  course,  gone  into  the  bushes  a  long 
way  from  the  nest.  One  has  great  sympathy  with 
the  birds  in  their  little  circumventions  and  dis- 
simulations, knowing  their  tribulations.  They  live 
among  their  numerous  foes  much  as  did  the  early 
settlers  in  this  land, —  that  is  to  say,  in  spite  of 
them.  The  weasel,  the  owl,  and  the  cat  —  the 
terrible  cat  —  are  appointed  to  decimate  the  pop- 
ulation of  birds. 

In  the  several  nests  of  warblers,  I  am  observing, 
the  thrifty  housewife  is  evidently  the  home- 
builder,  whereas  the  'rnail  seems  to  take  it  upon  him- 
self merely  to  cheer  and  encourage  her.  After  she 
has  construdted  a  framework  she  settles  herself  in 
this  and  builds  the  wall  around  her,  quite  as  if  she 
were  fitting  a  garment  to  herself.  Her  little  ways 
while  so  engaged  are  distinctly  feminine.  To  think 
that  she  has  never  been  taught  her  trade,  has  per- 
haps never  before  fitted  such  a  garment,  and  she 
is  already  deft  and  expert !  The  pair  seem  to  take 
an  almost  human  satisfaction  in  their  home.  Now 
and  again  they  appear  to  talk  it  over  together. 
Who  can  doubt  they  have  some  pleasure  in  this 
preparation,  that  they  have  bird-plans  and  bird- 
hopes  ? 

27 


||  IN 

THE 

OPEN 

We  do  not  really  know  a  bird  till  we  have 
found  its  nest  and  seen  it  at  home.  When  I  came 
upon  the  nest  of  the  snowbird  in  the  midst  of  a 
clearing  in  the  mountains,  it  was  like  visiting  the 
house  for  the  first  time  of  one  I  had  known  for 
years  —  a  person  of  some  distinction  at  that.  It 
was  placed  high  and  dry  on  a  tussock  in  a  flaming 
patch  of  hawkweed.  She  had  an  eye  for  the 
practical,  and  knew  better  than  to  put  her  house 
where  the  cellar  might  be  flooded.  The  four 
greenish  mottled  eggs  were  her  one  priceless  treas- 
ure, which  was  to  her  as  life  itself.  They  were 
warm,  and  the  whole  asped:  of  the  nest  was  sweet 
and  inviting.  It  appeared  to  breathe  some  femi- 
nine element,  so  dainty  was  it,  so  begirt  with 
flowers. 

A  humming-bird's  nest  that  I  have  been  watch- 
ing the  present  season  is  placed  on  a  pitch  pine- 
cone,  and  appears  to  a  casual  view  to  be  the  cone 
itself.  It  seems  as  if  the  bird  had  it  in  mind  to 
simulate  this  or  she  would  not  have  chosen  such 
a  peculiar  site,  for  it  affords  no  advantage  from  a 
structural  point  of  view.  If  this  be  true  it  is  a  de- 
parture from  all  traditions,  and  shows  a  bird  of 
some  character  and  originality.  In  other  respedts 

28 


BIRD  LIFE 


BIRD 

LIFEJI 

it  is  like  any  humming-bird's  nest  —  one  of  the 
most  exquisite  of  all  natural  objefts. 

In  the  course  of  ten  days,  in  place  of  one  of  the 
'eggs  appeared  a  small  and  peculiarly  homely  objedt 
which  resembled  a  spider  as  much  as  anything. 
Two  days  later  the  other  egg  was  hatched.  At 
this  stage  the  bills  of  the  young  birds  were  very 
short,  but  day  by  day  they  lengthened  and  grew 
more  needlelike.  At  length  one  bird  opened  its 
minute  and  shining  black  eyes  for  the  first  time. 
The  other  fell  from  the  nest  on  the  following  day, 
before  its  eyes  were  opened,  so  that  all  it  had 
known  of  life  was  the  consciousness  of  hunger. 

The  female  fed  her  young  with  much  less  fre- 
quency than  do  other  birds.  When  so  engaged 
she  perched  upon  the  rim  of  the  nest  and  pumped 
the  food  into  them  after  the  manner  of  her  kind. 
As  she  flew  to  and  fro,  she  appeared  to  move 
always  at  the  same  speed,  as  if  her  wings  were 
keyed  to  a  definite  rate  of  vibration  and  could  not 
vary.  Gradually  the  young  bird  emerged  from  its 
gruesome  infancy,  and  day  by  day  became  more 
sylphlike.  Heavy  winds  prevailed,  but  the  dimin- 
utive cradle  remained  unharmed,  though  branches 
were  everywhere  blown  from  the  trees.  So  was 

29 


IN  THE  OPEN  || 

the  wind  tempered  in  that  case  at  least,  till  one 
day  the  sylph  left  the  nest,  as  a  thistle-down  might 
detach  itself  and  sail  away  on  the  breeze. 

Birds  have  their  home-trees,  and  one  whose 
traditions  are  of  the  pine  is  not  drawn  to  build  in 
hardwoods.  The  woodthrush  is  associated  with  the 
dogwood,  as  the  catbird  with  the  smilax,  and  the 
oriole  with  the  elm.  There  are  ancient  apple 
orchards  which  have  come  to  serve  only  the  bees 
and  the  birds ;  but  what  temples  of  music  in  May 
with  the  hum  of  bees,  and  in  June  with  the  song 
of  wrens!  At  this  season  you  cannot  do  better 
than  to  set  out  for  one  of  these  old-time  orchards, 
neglected  of  man  and  favored  of  heaven. 

The  virile  hum  of  honey-  and  carpenter-bees 
descends  from  the  flowery  summits  to  the  listener 
beneath,  the  contented  music  of  a  race  dwelling 
overhead  and  nearer  the  skies  than  we.  It  is  such 
an  apple  —  Baldwin,  pippin,  or  russet — gnarled 
and  archaic  in  trunk  and  a  bower  of  beauty  above, 
which  becomes  the  home-tree  of  that  feathered 
gnome,  the  house-wren,  a  sprightly  elf,  living  in 
the  depths  of  a  tree  trunk  and  yet  full  to  the  brim 
of  song.  He  may  derive  of  the  flowing  sap  some 
genial  trait  and  takes  to  the  apple  as  a  swift  to  the 

3° 


BIRD 

LIFE)) 

chimney,  or  a  redwing  to  the  swamp.  After  the 
cold  rains  of  late  May  have  taken  off  the  blossoms 
and  with  them  the  bees,  the  place  becomes  melo- 
dious with  his  song.  It  is  thenceforth  his  estate, 
and  he  dominates  it  with  his  small  personality. 
With  him  his  house  is  his  castle,  and  in  true 
medieval  fashion  he  barricades  his  door.  Within 
is  snug  enough,  but  without  it  has  a  feudal  and 
forbidding  look, —  a  formidable  barrier  of  twigs, 
erected  perhaps  against  the  house-sparrow  or  for 
fear  the  robber-owl  may  peer  too  closely. 

In  this  choice  of  a  building  site  the  bird  reveals 
something  of  itself.  Contrast  the  wren  with  the 
phcebe,  a  cliff-dweller,  loving  the  contad:  of  the 
ledge  itself  better  than  any  bush  or  tree.  The 
song-sparrow  has  an  eye  for  the  wild  rose  and  the 
yellow  warbler  for  apple  blossoms,  but  the  phcebe 
has  some  austere  traits  which  make  the  stern  rock 
more  congenial  to  her.  Some  birds  are  architects,  \ 
others  builders  merely.  The  vireos  are  a  family  of 
artists,  whereas  the  improvident  cuckoo  will  not 
even  lay  a  proper  floor  to  her  nest. 

A  look  into  some  nests  is  a  glance  at  the  do- 
mestic life  of  a  savage  people,  and  yet  we  find  the 
virtues  we  most  esteem  —  patience,  perseverance 


IN  THE  OPEN 

and  fortitude.  Hour  in  and  hour  out  the  faithful 
kingfisher  flies  from  the  nest  to  the  fishing-ground, 
bringing  each  time  a  small  fish.  He  is  a  primitive 
and  industrious  fisherman  who  gets  an  honest  living 
by  his  skill  and  supports  his  family,  yet  he  is  under 
ban,  while  the  dilettante  whips  the  stream  for  his 
pleasure.  The  hoarse  rattle  of  the  kingfisher  is  an 
altogether  barbarous  chant  with  which  he  beguiles 
himself  as  with  a  hunting  song.  His  is  an  austere 
temperament  with  no  room  for  melody.  But  that 
he  returns  every  year  to  the  same  nest  —  the  an- 
cestral hall  —  is  evidence  of  some  more  domestic 
and  kindly  trait  in  his  character. 

This  nest  is  an  excavation  in  the  sand,  high  in 
a  bluff*,  and  is  perhaps  five  feet  deep, —  a  true  cave, 
and  its  inmate  a  cave-dweller.  We  have  thus  both 
cave-  and  cliff-dwellers  among  us  —  primitive  states 
of  man  still  exemplified  by  birds.  The  cave-dweller 
had  something  in  common  with  the  kingfisher, 
which  led  him  to  burrow  in  the  earth  for  a  home. 

That  was  truly  an  aboriginal  abode  which  I 
came  upon  in  the  spruce  woods  in  a  region  of 
perpetual  twilight.  The  somber  spruce  was  re- 
lieved only  by  some  veteran  yellow  birches  and  by 
ghostly  patches  of  false  miterwort  on  a  projecting 


[BIRD  LIFE] 

ledge.  High  in  a  birch  was  a  small  hole  from 
which  the  scarlet  crown  and  chin  of  a  sapsucker 
appeared  in  view,  as  the  bird  thrust  out  his  head 
and  looked  inquiringly  about.  A  harsh  imperious 
call  brought  the  female,  who  clung  to  the  trunk 
till  the  male  came  out,  whereupon  she  dived  into 
the  hole  herself,  while  he  in  turn  went  foraging. 
Whenever  the  pair  were  absent  from  the  nest 
the  insatiable  young  were  heard  squealing  within. 
It  was  a  fearsome  place  that  was  home  to  these 
young  savages,  a  room  within  a  tower,  lighted  by 
a  single  small  window  far  above.  To  think  of 
being  born  and  raised  in  the  dark  heart  of  a  tree ! 
The  old  birds  called  to  each  other  from  time  to 
time  as  they  hunted  over  the  neighborhood,  and 
their  speech  was  as  that  of  wild  men,  the  very 
rudiments  of  language  —  rude,  uncouth  and  evi- 
dently of  few  words.  But,  as  with  the  speech  of 
savages,  these  words  were  doubtless  packed  with 
meaning,  whole  sentences  and  paragraphs  in  them- 
selves, of  hard  and  practical  import.  Now  and  then 
the  scarlet  crown  appeared  at  the  entrance  of  the 
dark  wigwam.  Any  lurking  foe  would  be  espied 
from  there.  Probably  not  a  twig  moved  below 
but  it  was  noticed. 

33 


IN  THE  OPEN 


While  the  robin  and  the  bluebird  have  come  to 
wear  a  half  domestic  look,  the  woodpecker  is  the 
untutored  savage  still.  As  an  Indian  remains  an 
Indian,  a  woodpecker  remains  a  woodpecker. 
When  he  comes  to  the  orchard  he  is  an  inter- 
loper from  the  forest.  He  carries  the  stamp  of  the 
wilderness  with  him.  Defiance  is  in  the  poise  of 
his  head;  his  attitude  is  a  challenge. 

The  life  of  owls  and  hawks  is  completely 
savage  —  a  fierce,  carnivorous,  terrible  existence 
which  no  circumstance  can  affed:.  Regarding  their 
young  with  solemn  ferocity,  their  fierce  natures 
are  not  to  be  modified  or  softened  in  the  least.  A 
little  red  owl  having  her  nest  in  the  heart  of  a 
weeping  willow,  lived  so  secluded  a  life  her  presence 
was  hardly  suspedled  till  she  was  discovered  by  the 
smaller  birds  dozing  in  a  cedar.  Some  days  later 
she  appeared  at  dusk  with  four  young  owls,  which 
she  fed  on  large  beetles.  The  owlets  remained 
perched  in  a  line  on  the  fence  while  the  old  bird 
in  ghostly  silence  departed  into  the  night  in  search 
of  food.  It  was  wonderful  to  see  what  excess  of 
dignity  and  ferocity  was  expressed  in  the  person- 
ality of  these  little  birds.  As  well  have  expefted 
an  Iroquois  brave  to  ask  for  quarter.  Approach 

34 


PTUF>     TTT7T7I 

151  KJLJ    JLlr  H, 

them  and  they  were  on  the  defensive  with  all  the 
tricks  of  appearance  —  staring  eyes,  snapping  bill 
and  uncanny  wavering  motion  of  the  head.  Like 
some  phantom  creature,  the  old  bird  came  and 
went,  leaping  noiselessly  into  the  darkness  and 
reappearing  as  by  magic. 

The  owlets  took  their  beetles  with  avidity, 
swallowing  them  whole  and  gulping  and  gagging 
in  the  process  in  a  manner  indicative  of  discomfit 
rather  than  any  satisfaction  over  the  meal.  Once 
the  mother  brought  what  in  the  darkness  appeared 
to  be  a  small  mouse,  and  this  too  was  swallowed 
by  one  little  owl,  but  only  after  heroic  and  pro- 
trafted  efforts. 

It  was  no  great  matter  on  the  following  day  to 
gain  the  confidence  of  the  young  owls  to  a  slight 
degree.  But  food  was  the  only  bond  of  affinity. 
So  long  as  I  fed  them  they  were  content  to  perch 
on  my  finger,  fierce  and  solemn  little  ruffians,  and 
devour  bits  of  raw  meat.  Their  manners  remained 
sullen  and  forbidding,  though  they  never  refused 
to  eat.  Soon  they  lost  even  this  slight  contad:  with 
our  world  and  disappeared  into  their  own  —  the 
nocturnal  and  barbarous  world  of  the  owl. 

Every   year    there    is    fresh    evidence    that    the 

35 


IN 

THE 

OPEN  1  1 

course  of  true  love  runs  far  from  smoothly  with 
the  birds.  A  pair  of  yellow-throated  vireos  built 
no  less  than  three  nests  one  season  and  only  suc- 
ceeded in  occupying  the  last.  There  were  two 
suitors  for  the  affe&ion  of  the  female,  and  they 
fought  continually.  The  rejected  lover  harassed 
the  pair  while  at  work  gathering  material,  and 
that  he  twice  stole  a  march  on  them  and  actually 
tore  down  the  nest  appears  from  circumstantial 
evidence. 

Great  secrecy  was  observed  in  constructing  the 
third  nest,  and  the  rejected  one  no  longer  harassed 
them.  Either  he  had  transferred  his  affe&ions  or 
been  fairly  vanquished.  Life  was  strenuous  and 
impassioned  with  these  little  birds,  but  see  what 
constancy  and  perseverance !  Fancy  having  two 
houses  torn  down,  after  completing  them  with 
your  own  hands,  and  having  the  courage  to  build 
still  a  third!  There  is  something  of  the  pioneer 
and  frontiersman  in  this.  The  offspring  of  this 
pair  were  the  children  of  vigorous  and  romantic 
times,  and  should  have  inherited  some  heroic 
traits. 

Even  if  all  goes  well  otherwise,  the  sanctity  of 
the  nest  is  liable  to  be  profaned  by  the  cowbird. 

36 


BIRD  LIFE|| 

This  spring  was  an  unusually  favorable  one  for 
them.  I  noticed  the  least  flycatcher  and  the  Mary- 
land yellowthroat  mothering  young  cowbirds,  and 
many  vireos  and  warblers  so  engaged.  It  is  a  wary 
caution  that  leads  the  cowbird  to  choose  the 
smaller  birds  for  her  viftims. 

It  would  be  hard  to  say  which  of  all  the  foster- 
mothers  is  the  more  solicitous  of  her  charge.  Now 
it  appears  to  be  the  redeye,  and  again  the  chip- 
ping-sparrow.  All  alike  are  bent  on  bringing  the 
birdling  to  maturity  as  though  it  were  of  first  im- 
portance. That  cowbird  shall  thrive  though  the 
heavens  fall.  The  attention  seems  to  be  in  propor- 
tion to  the  egregious  demands  of  the  foundling. 
Here  at  least  is  a  waif  well  cared  for,  an  upstart 
that  takes  precedence  over  the  true  and  lawful 
heirs.  Another  year  this  same  adventuress  will  in- 
vade the  nests  of  her  adopted  sisters. 

The  yellow  warbler  is  perhaps  the  oftenest 
chosen.  Accessible  and  easily  found,  the  nest  is  a 
beautiful  cup-shaped  stru&ure  lodged  in  the  fork 
of  a  fruit  tree,  with  perchance  a  spray  of  blossoms 
just  over  it  —  a  house  of  silk,  a  satin  bower.  How 
awkward  and  uncouth  must  the  cowbird  appear 
squatting  on  this  fragile  silken  thing  to  lay  her 

37 


IN  THE  OPEN 

eggs !  Doubtless  she  watches  the  yellow  bird  strip- 
ping the  dry  grass  stems  and  gathering  the  pappus 
of  last  year's  cattails ;  squats  low  in  the  grass  and 
looks  all  unconcerned  while  she  marks  the  tree  to 
which  the  fluffy  material  is  carried,  and  bides  her 
time  till  the  nest  is  ready.  Strange  that  she  should 
never  discover  in  herself  the  home-making  instinct, 
for  even  nomads  have  their  tents.  Stranger  still 
she  should  never  once  wish  to  undertake  the  duties 
of  motherhood. 

For  a  time,  perhaps,  the  young  cowbird  is  in- 
fluenced by  the  habit  of  the  bird  that  happens  to 
mother  it,  whether  this  be  a  ground-sparrow  or  a 
tree-loving  flycatcher.  But  it  grows  up  a  cowbird 
with  all  the  inheritance  of  that  peculiar  tribe,  and 
its  brief  contact  with  a  superior  race  leaves  no  im- 
press upon  it. 

In  spite  of  cowbirds  and  the  exigencies  of  life 
the  woods  are  full  of  young  birds,  their  tails  not 
yet  grown.  This  is  their  childhood  —  a  brief 
one  —  as  the  days  in  the  nest  were  their  infancy. 
They  are  exacting  children,  yet  they  do  not  clamor 
to  be  amused,  but  only  to  be  fed.  I  have  seen  a 
young  chipping-sparrow,  its  tail  half  grown,  show- 
ing how  recently  it  was  from  the  nest,  pick  up  a 

38 


BIRD  LIFE 

straw  and  carry  it  about.  So  early  does  the  ma- 
ternal instinct  show  itself.  This  straw  was  its  doll- 
baby,  the  only  plaything  it  could  know,  and  this 
its"  solemn  play.  There  is  a  mild  and  innocent 
expression  about  young  birds,  as  there  is  in  the 
faces  of  children,  apparent  to  a  keen  vision  only. 
They  have  yet  to  be  hardened  by  experience  and 
vicissitude.  The  countenances  of  the  old  take  on 
an  astute  and  alert  expression.  These  young  black- 
and-white  creepers  and  chestnut  warblers,  now 
shifting  for  themselves  for  the  first  time,  come 
about  with  gentle  confidence.  They  creep  and 
flit  through  the  trees,  coming  nearer  and  nearer, 
until  you  look  diredtly  into  their  small  innocent 
faces  and  could  put  your  hand  upon  them.  Then 
as  it  would  seem  they  were  about  to  descend  like 
blessings  upon  your  head,  they  withdraw  and  recede 
from  view  into  the  wilderness  of  leaves  where  only 
your  thoughts  may  follow  them. 


•    39 


SONGS  OF  THE 
WOODS 


We  are  drawn  ever  by  the  voices  of  birds.  Even 
such  as  might  be  called  monotonous  and  unmelo- 
dious  arc  none  the  less  significant  and  welcome. 
The  fine  lisping  notes  of  warblers,  as  they  indus- 
triously hunt  for  their  food,  seem  expressive  of  the 
contentment  of  their  minds.  All  over  the  hemlock 
swamp  I  hear  the  voices  of  black-throated  green 
warblers.  Not  one  may  appear  in  view,  but  for 
hours  together  their  musical  conversation  continues 
in  the  treetops.  From  somewhere  in  the  branches 
above  comes  the  call  of  a  nuthatch,  his  speech 
wholly  dissimilar  from  the  rest,  as  if  he  might  be 
an  inhabitant  of  a  very  different  world.  Almost 
in  the  ear  sounds  the  thin  wiry  note  of  a  black- 
and-white  creeper,  as  he  winds  around  the  trunk 
of  a  pine  and  approaches  with  his  accustomed  so- 
ciability. High  above  the  others,  the  trill  of  the 
pine- warbler  rings  clear  and  sweet  —  a  more  reso- 
nant instrument  surely.  These  voices  all  affe£t  us 
agreeably,  and  bring  us  in  immediate  contaft  with 

40 


SONGS  OF  THE  WOODS 


their  world  and  with  wood  life.  They  do  not 
touch  our  world,  however,  nor  set  in  motion  the 
delicate  mechanism  of  the  emotions.  But  let  a 
bluebird  pass  overhead  all  unseen,  warbling  his 
celestial  "  Pure !  Pure !  Pure !  " — let  that  significant 
note  fall  on  the  ear  and  for  reasons  unknown  it 
sinks  into  the  soul,  into  the  abyss  of  feeling,  and 
this  as  mysteriously  rises  in  a  delicious  flood  to  the 
surface.  Whence  has  the  bluebird  his  power,  that 
by  the  mere  quality  of  tone  he  can  exert  this  spell  ? 
Some  bird  voices  are  so  positive,  so  emphatically 
cheerful,  that  one  never  hears  them  without  feeling 
better  for  it.  The  chickadee  in  the  winter  woods 
is  an  instance  of  this.  If  you  feel  dreary,  he  does 
not.  Nothing  can  dampen  his  spirits.  He  hopped 
out  of  the  nest  a  cheery  little  chap,  and  it  is  never 
otherwise  with  him.  In  all  his  days  he  has  never 
had  a  regret,  never  transgressed  any  law,  never 
been  unhappy.  The  voice  of  the  chewink,  too,  isf 
eminently  sane,  a  mild,  buoyant  utterance  indica- 
tive of  an  even  disposition.  He  is  never  more 
hopeful,  nor  less  so,  but  always  exaftly  the  same. 
Perhaps  the  birds  have  not  what  we  call  feeling, 
but  if  not,  why  do  they  express  themselves  ?  What 
else  would  prompt  these  songs?  The  clear  sweet 


||  IN  THE  OPEN 

call  of  the  bob-white  is  full  of  hope,  and  there  is 
a  quality  of  tenderness  in  this  voice.  One  must 
believe  it  the  outcome  of  the  disposition  and  char- 
adter  of  the  bird,  of  some  refinement  of  feeling; 
just  as  the  raucous  call  of  the  English  pheasant 
expresses  grossness  and  density,  and  the  quailing 
of  the  hawk  pure  savagery. 

If  we  may  speak  of  the  temperament  of  birds, 
the  thrushes  must  be  accorded  the  religious  tem- 
perament. They  are  the  inspired  singers;  their 
songs  are  eminently  sacred  music.  The  woodthrush 
appears  to  be  adhiated  by  other  than  merely  com- 
monplace and  personal  motives.  Upon  him  the 
forest  has  laid  its  spell,  and  he  must  deliver  its 
message.  He  flits  about  with  a  dignity  befitting 
his  high  calling.  There  is  no  abandon  in  his  song ; 
he  does  not  sing  about  himself — has  no  moods  — 
but  repeats  his  solemn  chant.  It  breaks  the  still- 
ness of  the  woods  with  a  sort  of  challenge  to  the 
gay  fields  beyond,  like  the  call  of  the  muezzin 
from  the  minarets  of  the  mosque  —  a  summons  to 
all  twittering  sparrows  and  chattering  squirrels  to 
be  silent  and  listen.  That  such  fervor,  such  so- 
lemnity and  beauty  of  utterance  should  be  uncon- 
scious and  unwitting  seems  incredible.  Stand  and 

42 


SONGS  OF  THE  WOODS 


listen  to  the  hermit-thrush  and  see  if  you  can  think 
idle  thoughts.  You  must  hear  his  message  and 
feel  the  spirit  of  his  invocation  —  the  voice  of  one 
crying  in  the  wilderness. 

Why  is  the  hermit  moved  to  be  thus  didactic, 
while  in  the  fields  beyond  the  field-sparrow  lightly 
trills  and  the  merry  bobolink  continually  bubbles 
over  with  song?  Such  merry  jingles,  such  uncon- 
trollable outbursts  of  melody,  such  a  rippling, 
bubbling  medley  as  comes  up  from  the  meadows, 
while  the  thrush  solemnly  intones  within  the  twi- 
light shades  of  the  woods !  Surely  in  view  of  this 
we  may  speak  of  the  temperament  and  the  person- 
ality of  birds.  If  the  bobolink's  medley  is  not  evi- 
dence of  a  light  heart,  then  are  appearances  de- 
ceptive indeed.  Care  rests  easily  —  if  at  all  —  upon 
his  hopeful  nature,  but  the  burden  of  his  song  is 
quite  as  well  worth  heeding  as  is  that  of  the 
thrush.  One  is  lyric,  the  other  didadtic.  The 
bobolink  communicates  his  joyous  and  irrepressible 
spirits,  as  the  thrush  his  serene  exaltation.  It  is 
certain  the  wood  birds  are  of  a  different  tempera- 
ment from  the  field  birds.  Either  they  are  influ- 
enced to  their  prevailing  moods  by  their  environ- 
ments, or  they  are  attracted  thereto  by  their  own 

43 


IN  THE  OPEN  [  [ 


peculiarities,  as    men    are    drawn    to    solitude    or 
society. 

The  hidden,  the  subtle,  find  voice  in  the  veery. 
His  is  perhaps  the  most  spiritual  strain  of  all,  him- 
self the  high  priest  of  the  mystic  lore  of  the  forest. 
Of  the  thrush  family  he  is  the  consecrated  mem- 
ber, as  the  robin  is  the  worldling  among  them.  I 
believe  there  is  no  other  bird  voice  so  mysterious; 
so  impersonal  is  it,  so  spiritlike,  it  appears  to 
emanate  from  a  world  of  higher  motive  than  ours. 
In  the  devotional  strain  of  the  hermit,  the  forest 
prayer  is  breathed  on  the  mountains.  No  hymn 
could  be  less  impassioned,  less  material,  more  truly 
spiritual  than  the  song  of  this  thrush ;  it  is  nearest 
the  speech  of  angels.  Of  all  instruments  the  organ 
and  the  harp  are  alone  capable  of  producing  any 
such  effe6t.  On  rare  occasions  I  have  heard  the 
veery  indulge  in  a  reverie  never  to  be  forgotten. 
It  appeared  to  be  wholly  inspired  and  original  as 
though  the  bird  were  improvising  like  some  Abt 
Vogler  at  his  organ,  rearing  a  palace  of  music. 
The  motive  was  complex  and  involved,  and  sung 
so  pianissimo  as  to  be  just  audible,  like  the  love- 
song  of  the  catbird,  a  rapt  utterance  which  ad- 
mitted one  to  the  sacred  arcana  of  Nature. 

44 


SONGS 

OF 

THE 

WOODS  ||                | 

It  is  not  unprecedented  for  a  bird  to  depart  thus 
from  its  usual  song  and  to  improvise.  You  may 
detedt  even  the  jay  in  this  mood,  though  it  is 
wholly  imitative  with  him.  The  love-song  of  the 
catbird  and  the  autumn  reverie  of  the  song-spar- 
row are  perhaps  the  best  instances.  I  am  not  yet 
wholly  familiar  with  the  songs  of  the  robin.  It 
appears  he  is  still  studying  music,  and  adds  a  phrase 
or  varies  a  theme  occasionally.  He  is  the  most 
romantic  of  the  thrushes;  his  song  is  more  per- 
sonal and  less  spiritual  than  the  others.  When,  in 
early  spring,  the  robins  sing  together  at  sundown, 
there  is  an  exquisite  tenderness  in  their  notes  which 
accords  with  the  sweet  youthfulness  of  the  year. 
It  is  later  in  the  season,  when  his  mate  sits  upon 
the  nest,  that  the  robin  rises  to  the  heights  of  lyric 
beauty  and  pours  out  his  soul  from  the  top  of  the 
tallest  maple  in  the  swamp, —  a  brave  sweet  love- 
song,  sung  with  dignity  and  without  hesitation, 
that  all  his  world  may  hear. 

At  dawn  he  is  moved  a  little  more  to  the  rapt 
and  religious  expression  of  the  thrushes.  Some- 
thing there  is  in  the  solemnity  of  that  hour  which 
touches  the  hearts  of  all  little  birds.  What  it  is 
we  shall  perhaps  never  know;  shall  never  know 

45 


IN  THE  OPEN 

enough  of  bird  life  to  understand  what  emotions 
they  may  have  which  so  powerfully  sway  them 
and  become  evident  in  their  voices.  The  evidence 
is  there;  the  cause  is  to  be  inferred.  While  the 
birds  are  everywhere  more  or  less  affected  by  the 
approaching  day  and  give  voice  to  their  feelings, 
there  appear  to  be  musical  centers  in  the  bird 
world  in  which  the  expression  is  more  concerted 
than  in  other  localities, —  favored  sections  where 
this  hymn  to  Apollo  is  memorable  indeed  and 
hardly  to  be  described.  It  is  a  great  chant  with  all 
its  solemnity,  all  its  impressiveness. 

Beginning  with  the  desultory  calls  of  wood- 
pewees,  it  is  taken  up  by  song-sparrows,  robins  and 
catbirds,  dominated  by  the  devotional  song  of  the 
woodthrush  who  appears  to  act  as  chorister.  Birds 
seem  to  congregate  from  near  and  far  and  to  in- 
spire one  another  to  unusual  efforts.  The  volume 
and  stateliness  of  this  chant,  so  measured  and 
rhythmical,  carries  with  it  vibrations  of  power 
and  cannot  fail  to  communicate  its  influence  to  the 
listener,  be  he  bird  or  man.  Here  is  a  multitude 
of  birds  actuated  by  a  unity  of  purpose,  impelled 
by  a  single  motive,  and  though  every  one  sings 
his  own  song,  the  myriad  voices  blend  in  one  con- 

46 


]  I  SONGS  OF  THE  WOODS  |  [ 


cordant  whole.  To  arouse  suddenly  from  a  sound 
sleep  in  the  woods  at  dawn  while  this  chant  is  in 
progress,  is  like  awakening  in  another  sphere, 
where  sings  the  choir  celestial.  We  slip  from 
sleep  into  the  heaven  of  song,  and  it  requires  an- 
other awakening  to  bring  us  to  consciousness  of 
this  aftual  world  about  us. 

They  are  the  troubadours  these  birds,  the  wan- 
derers whose  souls  are  in  their  voices.  What  bold 
romantic  singers  are  the  cardinal  and  the  rose- 
breasted  grosbeak  —  the  lords  of  song!  When  the 
cardinal  comes  North  he  appears  to  feel  out  of  his 
element  and  modestly  withdraws.  But  in  the  South 
he  dominates  the  swamp  and  adjoining  cotton- 
fields  with  his  rollicking,  melodious  voice.  A  gay 
minstrel,  he  compels  attention.  These  voices  of 
the  cypress  swamp  are  clear  and  bright  in  contrast 
with  their  dismal  surroundings.  The  bell-like  note 
of  the  tufted  titmouse  in  the  treetops,  and  the 
brave,  cheery  song  of  the  Carolina  wren  lighten 
those  fearsome  shades.  The  wren  carries  his  sun- 
shine with  him.  There  is  no  minor  in  his  song; 
he  is  never  discouraged,  any  more  than  the  chick- 
adee. Day  after  day  that  voice  rings  true  —  all's 
well  with  the  world.  Brave  voices  singing  in  the 

47 


IN  THE  OPEN  I  [ 


wilderness,  they  lighten  vaster  shades  than  any 
they  know  of,  sound  their  note  of  courage  and 
well-being  for  other  ears  than  theirs.  What  blessed 
transformation  from  the  songless  ages  —  from  that 
slimy  reptilian  world  where  was  no  music,  no 
song  —  to  this  unpaid  minstrelsy  of  the  woods  and 
fields!  They  have  served  us  these  many  years  — 
the  sweet  singers,  the  true  birds  of  paradise,  with 
power  to  lift  us  from  our  dull,  un melodious 
thoughts  into  their  harmonious  world. 

As  I  was  following  the  course  of  a  mountain 
stream  through  the  leafless  woods  early  in  April, 
the  silence  was  broken  by  a  strange  musical  alarm. 
It  was  the  Louisiana  water-thrush,  but  might  have 
been  the  pipes  of  Pan,  so  wild  and  woodland  was 
it.  The  first  notes  were  high  and  startlingly  loud 
and  clear,  while  the  song  descended  the  scale  and 
became  softer  and  softer  till  it  died  away.  This  is 
one  of  the  bird  voices  that  are  untamed,  that  seem 
to  belong  to  impersonal  Nature.  It  is  wholly  sav- 
age—  a  piece  of  the  wilderness,  untouched  by  the 
presence  of  man.  These  voices  do  not  strike  the 
human  and  sympathetic  chords,  but  ally  one  with 
the  wilderness.  Such  are  the  cry  of  the  loon, 
the  melody  of  the  ruby  kinglet  and  the  song  of 

48 


|                1  1  SONGS  OF  THE  WOODS 

the  winter  wren.  The  kinglet's  song  has  a  ca- 
dence unlike  any  other,  reminding  one  of  water 
murmuring  underground,  and  for  some  reason  a 
classic  suggestion,  as  of  faun  and  satyr.  It  is  more 
truly  sylvan  than  any  other  —  sylvan  in  the  old 
Greek  sense,  so  elusive  and  shy  it  is,  so  mysterious. 
Such  voices  give  no  evidence  of  self-conscious- 
ness; they  are  as  impersonal  as  the  winds  or  as 
the  murmuring  stream.  But  with  the  catbird,  the 
thrasher  and  the  mocking-bird,  pre-eminently  vo- 
calists, there  is  a  set  and  declamatory  method  which 
has  the  appearance  of  affectation.  Their  songs  are 
brilliant  and  elaborately  phrased,  but  they  lack 
spontaneity,  and  in  listening  to  them  one  wishes 
they  had  put  their  powers  to  a  different  use.  The 
thrasher  is  particularly  self-conscious  and  stagey, 
and  yet  he  has  a  glorious  voice.  No  bird  has  a 
finer  quality  of  tone  than  he  shows  in  some  of  his 
notes  —  clear,  mellow,  vibratory  as  in  the  voices  of 
really  great  tenors.  It  is  that  quality  which  Na- 
ture alone  supplies  and  no  cultivation  nor  perfec- 
tion of  method  can  give.  When  he  speaks  to  his 
mate  in  an  undertone  his  voice  would  melt  a  heart 
of  stone.  There  is  a  time,  however,  when  the 
catbird  rises  above  any  suspicion  of  self-conscious- 

49 


1 

IN  THE  OPEN 

ness  and  is  transported,  and  the  listener  with  him, 
in  a  reverie  of  exceeding  beauty.  It  is  a  wondrous 
love-song,  an  incomparable  madrigal,  blending 
with  the  morning  sunshine  and  the  first  green 
leaves  of  the  alders,  soft  and  low  as  faint  murmur- 
ings  of  a  stream,  a  fluid  melody  uttered  for  chosen 
ears. 

All  too  soon  the  only  bird  notes  are  those  of 
the  redeye  and  the  pewee.  For  music  we  have 
the  tree-toads  and  cicada.  The  sounds  of  this 
season  are  rhythmic  and  vibratory  —  virile  songs  of 
the  year's  manhood  —  the  mature  year,  lusty  and 
vigorous.  But  how  soon  they  dwindle  and  wane, 
despite  this  sonorous  protestation,  grow  silent  and 
slip  into  the  sear  and  yellow,  and  thence  into  the 
leafless,  the  glittering,  the  sublime  aspedls  of  winter ! 
The  last  of  September  brings  with  it  just  a  reminder 
of  the  sweet  and  winsome  sounds  of  spring.  At 
this  season  the  song-sparrow  indulges  in  a  wonder- 
fully ecstatic  reverie,  a  bit  of  wild  melody  charged 
with  feeling  as  of  some  larger  consciousness,  some 
tribal  memories  of  that  musical  race,  now  finding 
voice  in  the  waning  year.  So  continuous  and  varied 
is  the  theme,  and  withal  so  complex  and  involved 
as  compared  with  his  usual  simple  and  positive  lay, 

5° 


SONGS  OF  THE  WOOD?]  [ 


that  one  must  look  at  him  twice  to  make  sure  it 
is  he,  and  not  some  unknown  minstrel  from  a  dis- 
tant shore. 

Insedls  are  the  autumn  singers  and  take  the 
place  of  birds  and  frogs.  The  crickets  are  as  mu- 
sical in  their  way  as  the  thrush  family,  though 
provided  with  but  indifferent  instruments.  When 
you  consider  that  these  crickets  and  locusts  'will 
express  themselves  —  will  fill  the  day  with  song  — 
though  they  are  without  vocal  organs  and  must 
perforce  do  with  legs  and  wings  instead,  you  must 
respedl  them  as  musicians.  It  is  a  distinctly  abo- 
riginal music  as  compared  with  that  of  the  birds, 
as  tom-toms  and  pipes  are  to  violins  and  cellos. 
And  yet  it  is  rhythmic  withal  and  not  wanting  in 
sweetness.  Contrast  these  merry  crickets  with  the 
silent  spider.  There  is  no  song  in  the  annals  of 
her  race.  She  is  unsocial  and  unmusical  like  the 
savage  birds  of  prey.  Yet  before  bees  and  birds 
had  appeared  on  the  earth  there  were  crickets 
chirping.  Theirs  is  the  most  ancient  chant  of  the 
world  —  the  Song  of  Sex. 

Autumn  nights  are  melodious  with  a  voice, 
which  in  the  distance  is  so  like  that  of  the  hyla  of 
early  spring,  though  softer  and  more  throbbing, 

51 


IN  THE  OPEN 

that  it  is  often  mistaken  for  a  kind  of  tree-toad. 
Heard  near  at  hand  it  is  singularly  clear  and  almost 
bell-like,  though  ventriloquial  in  its  elusiveness  and 
difficult  to  locate,  for  as  you  approach,  it  ceases 
and  is  taken  up  by  another  a  short  distance  away. 
Even  when  standing  directly  in  front  of  it,  it 
appears  to  come  from  several  directions.  It  was 
only  after  prowling  the  woods  with  a  lantern  that 
I  discovered  the  identity  of  the  sweet  singer,  a 
small  inseft  of  a  pale  green  hue,  not  over  an  inch 
in  length,  looking  like  a  sort  of  locust,  though 
classed  with  the  crickets.  The  translucent  wings 
are  of  a  delicate  ivory-white  and  the  antennae  very 
long. 

This  cricket  was  hanging  to  the  edge  of  a  grape 
leaf  when  the  rays  of  the  lantern  fell  upon  him. 
He  perhaps  took  it  for  moonlight,  for  on  a  sudden 
the  wings  were  eredted  until  at  right  angles  to  the 
body,  and  then,  as  it  were  automatically,  and  with 
the  precision  of  a  pendulum,  they  moved  to  and 
fro,  partly  crossing  their  bases  and  thus  scraping 
the  veins  of  the  middle  portion  —  and  the  mysteri- 
ous singer  of  the  night  stood  revealed. 

The  quality  of  the  tone  —  the  timbre  —  sug- 
gests the  sound  made  by  rubbing  the  rim  of  a 


SONGS  OF  THE  WOODS 


glass  bowl,  the  horny  plate  of  the  wing  giving  it 
great  resonance.  It  appears  to  be  pitched  to  A 
below  middle  C,  though  some  may  be  A  sharp  or 
even  B.  The  overtones  make  it  difficult  to  deter- 
mine the  pitch.  The  chirping  keeps  up  a  good 
part  of  the  night,  and  in  the  wee  small  hours  takes 
on  an  uncertain  quaver,  as  if  the  little  singer 
had  fallen  asleep  and  were  droning  drowsily  in  its 
slumbers. 

An  inseft  which  may  %be  the  same  one  —  cer- 
tainly an  allied  species  —  has  a  day-song  somewhat 
different  from  this  song  of  the  night,  a  shrilling 
in  place  of  a  chirp.  This  is  made  by  elevating 
the  wings  in  the  same  manner  as  at  night,  but 
instead  of  rubbing  them  one  across  the  other  in 
regular  time,  they  are  rapidly  and  continuously 
vibrated  like  an  eledtric  bell.  The  rapidity  of  the 
vibration  raises  the  pitch,  though  the  quality  of 
the  tone  is  but  little  different. 

There  is  in  this  day-song  no  suggestion  of  the 
blistering,  feverish  shrill  of  the  dog-day  cicada, 
but  a  far-off  dreamy  sound.  A  little  before  sunset 
it  gradually  gives  way  to  that  of  the  night.  Day 
inevitably  inspires  one  song  and  night  another,  as 
if  these  reacted  to  bring  out  two  sets  of  emotions. 

53 


1 

IN  THE  OPEN 

And  yet  there  is  but  one  theme :  the  minstrels  sing 
always  of  that,  but  serenade  the  fair  one  after  one 
fashion  by  day  and  more  serenely  by  the  light  of 
the  stars.  She,  having  apparently  no  ears,  hears  none 
the  less,  and  perhaps  detects  variations  in  this 
monotonous  ditty  and  even  distinguishes  the  fine 
quality  of  some  particular  voice  —  some  clearness 
of  tone,  some  pathetic  tremulo  indicative  of  a 
cricket's  feelings.  For  is  not  this  a  song-festival  of 
all  the  grasshoppers?  I  noticed  a  common  short- 
horned  grasshopper  stridulating  in  the  sunshine, 
which  he  did  by  taking  short  flights  and  rapidly 
opening  and  shutting  his  wings  like  an  accordion. 
This  produced  a  series  of  dry,  crackling  sounds  as 
the  wing  was  scraped  against  the  wing-cover.  After 
thus  exhibiting  his  powers,  a  female  at  length 
came  from  some  little  distance  and  lit  beside  him, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "  If  you  can  sing  like  that  I  am 
yours  forevermore." 

One  feels  some  sympathy  with  these  sweet  singers 
of  the  fields  in  knowing  what  a  little  life  is  theirs, 
how  short  is  the  span.  For  the  most  part  they 
have  but  a  few  months  to  sport  in  the  sunshine. 
This  epithalamium  is  at  the  same  time  a  requiem. 
In  Odtober  it  rises,  a  universal  threnody,  the 

54 


]  [  SONGS  OF  THE  WOODS  | 


death-song  of  the  inserts.  Over  all  the  land,  wasps 
and  bees  and  butterflies  fall  like  leaves.  Death 
overtakes  them  on  the  wing.  They  lie  down  to 
sleep,  like  travelers  lost  in  the  snow. 


55 


WILD  GARDENS 


Improvement  easily  becomes  an  affectation,  from 
which  all  healthy  natures  suffer  periodic  reactions 
that  take  them  to  the  mountains  and  the  forest,  to 
those  primeval  estates  loved  of  wild  bees,  of  the 
phoebe  and  the  wren.  One  feels  a  sympathy  with 
those  renegade  plants  known  as  garden  escapes  — 
star  of  Bethlehem,  bouncing-bet,  and  the  rest  — 
which  have  run  away  from  the  garden  for  the 
freedom  of  the  woods  and  highways.  The  con- 
ventionalities of  spade  and  hoe  are  odious  to  them. 
They  wander  far  from  the  assemblage  of  the  eled: ; 
they  will  live  wild  and  free,  these  Philistines,  fol- 
lowing the  open  road  wherever  it  may  lead,  with 
a  sort  of  tramp  instind:.  Even  the  staid  and  do- 
mestic apple  will  break  away  from  the  fold  to 
seek  the  unregenerate  society  of  the  pastures. 

The  hemlock  woods,  the  meadow  and  the  bog 
are  wild  gardens  which  require  no  cultivating 
themselves,  but  only  a  certain  cultivation  and  ap- 
preciation in  us,  which  they  repay  with  gentle 

56 


WILD  GARDENSJ 


and  unfailing  interest  year  after  year.  What  we  get 
from  them  will  depend  on  what  we  take  to  them. 
Flowers  are  nothing  away  from  their  haunts. 
We  must  have  the  field  in  which  the  clover  blos- 
somed—  bees  and  all,  the  cranberry-bog,  the  mossy 
bank  of  the  violet,  the  white  birch  on  which  the 
polyporus  grew.  Take,  for  example,  the  clintonia, 
solitary  amidst  fallen  spruce  logs  on  the  mountain 
slope.  Imagine  it  transferred  to  a  trim  garden ! 
If  you  have  really  seen  that  flower  of  the  solitudes, 
you  have  seen  the  mossy  rock  overhanging  it,  the 
spruce  cones  lying  thick  about ;  sniffed  the  balsam 
and  heard  the  veery  on  the  mountain.  Or  con- 
sider this  mountain  sheep  pasture  with  its  clumps 
of  stunted  spruce  and  balsam,  its  scattered  boulders 
and  patches  of  sensitive  fern,  its  reddening  sorrel 
and  running  cinquefoil ;  bluets  lie  over  the  ground 
like  a  light  fall  of  snow;  pasture  stones  are 
incrusted  with  parmelias  and  set  in  a  frame  of 
hair-cap  moss  and  reindeer  lichens,  incomparable 
mosaics;  wild  strawberries  nestle  among  dainty 
speedwells,  half  hidden  under  the  bent  grass.  It  is 
a  whole,  an  homogeneous  piece  of  work,  like  a 
tapestry.  There  is  not  a  bog-rush  nor  a  buttercup 
to  be  spared. 

57 


1 

|  IN  THE 

OPEN 

1 

From  the  first  fragrant  spicebush  to  the  last 
witch-hazel,  no  cultivated  shrub  is  to  be  compared 
with  them,  for  the  virtue  of  the  wild  is  not  to  be 
transplanted  and  is  never  imprisoned  in  flower- 
beds. These  shrubs  of  the  pasture  have  a  person- 
ality derived  from  immemorial  contact  with  the 
virgin  and  uncultivated  soil.  They  have  been  nour- 
ished by  the  very  juices  of  earth  and  by  the  bone 
and  sinew  of  the  mountains.  If  you  would  have 
the  barberry,  you  must  move  the  pasture  itself.  It 
is  of  wild  gardens  solely,  an  untamed  and  untam- 
able beauty.  And  so  it  is  with  the  dogwood,  for 
what  is  this  but  sunshine  in  the  May  woods  — 
rifts  of  light  breaking  here  and  there  through  the 
overarching  green  of  oak  and  tulip  trees  ?  It  were 
as  easy  to  catch  sunbeams  as  to  carry  this  away. 

The  mountain  is  the  mother  of  these  wild  gar- 
dens; a  vigorous  dame  to  bring  forth  so  gentle  a 
brood  —  as  the  slopes  of  Vesuvius  produce  a  mellow 
wine  which  has  taken  only  a  kindly  warmth  from 
the  raging  heart  of  the  volcano.  All  her  fairest 
virtues  have  blossomed  in  her  children ;  her  graces 
would  remain  unsuspefted  but  for  them.  Let  the 
gods  but  fling  down  a  bit  of  rock  anywhere  and 
presently,  after  a  few  ages,  it  shall  dissolve  into 

58 


[WILD  GARDENS 


violets  and  anemones.  Grind  it  to  powder  by  the 
wayside  and  you  have  only  made  it  into  thistles 
and  burdock;  scatter  it  over  the  fields  and  it  be- 
comes daisies  and  sunflowers. 

Imperceptibly,  granite  melts  at  its  outer  edge 
into  a  fringe  of  dicksonia  and  wild  rose.  Lime- 
stone will  bring  forth  a  richer  garden  than  sand- 
stone, as  though,  like  the  rock-maple,  it  had  more 
sweetness  in  its  veins  than  another.  Some  of  the 
most  delightful  gardens  arise  from  disintegrating 
basalt.  Perchance  this  rock  retains  a  little  of  its 
old  volcanic  heat  and  has  more  of  the  finer  graces 
in  its  make-up  than  that  which  was  coldly  laid 
down  under  water.  Fiery  lava,  tempered  and  mol- 
lified by  Time,  has  become  kindly  and  amenable. 
Where  was  only  desolation,  after  countless  days 
the  dicentra  hangs  out  its  white  flags  in  truce  to 
the  warring  elements.  The  sand  hillocks  of  the 
terminal  moraine  are  the  chosen  land  of  mountain 
laurel,  and  there  are  untold  acres  where  this  con- 
stitutes almost  the  sole  undergrowth.  What  a 
hanging  garden,  when,  on  a  level  with  the  eye, 
one  continuous  bloom  spreads  through  the  twilight 
of  the  woods  —  the  single  buds  like  miniature  urns 
of  rose  quartz  so  delicately  are  they  sculptured, — 

59 


1 

IN  THE  OPEN 

here  a  warm  rosy  tint  and  there  a  ghostly  pallid 
blossom.  This  soil,  the  detritus  of  glacial  torrents, 
despite  its  many  washings,  has  not  given  up  all  its 
gold,  but  is  rich  in  arbutus  and  in  pedata  violets. 
It  is,  after  all,  granite,  the  mother-lode  of  the  earth ; 
granite  after  endless  transmutations  but  still  retain- 
ing some  of  its  virtues. 

To  the  first  flowers  belongs  a  charm,  the  most 
exquisite  of  any,  something  tender  and  appealing, 
as  though  they  enshrined  the  fairest  virtues  of  the 
year  —  its  modesty,  its  purity,  its  sweetness — in 
violets,  anemones  and  bloodroot.  This  charm,  so 
elusive,  has  never  been  described,  nor  shall  be  in- 
deed. It  is  like  music  which  is  a  language  in 
itself  and  will  bear  no  translation.  The  bee  must 
approach  these  with  some  humility  and  more  gen- 
tleness than  is  shown  to  the  sturdy  blossoms  of 
summer.  They  are  eminently  the  "gentle  race" 
of  flowers,  born  in  the  enchanted  time. 

We  go  with  hungry  eyes  at  this  season.  By 
midsummer  we  have  been  well  feasted  and  no 
longer  see  individual  blossoms  so  much  as  masses 
of  bloom.  Bloodroot  and  hepatica  are  like  the 
dewdrops  of  early  morning  which  disappear  before 
the  sun.  They  can  be  found  just  once  in  a  year; 

60 


COPYRIGHT,    1908,    BY   RUDOLF   EICKEMEYER 


WILD  GARDENS 


[WILD 

GARDENS  || 

after  that  they  will  not  appear  the  same.  It  is 
cheering  to  come  upon  such  a  fair  company  of 
spring  beauty  where  but  a  few  days  since  were 
none ;  to  enter  a  stretch  of  woodland  and  find  it 
populous  with  these  friends  of  a  lifetime,  now 
returned  to  their  old  haunts.  We  do  not  com- 
monly reflect  that  they  have  been  under  the  snow 
all  the  while.  Scattered  among  them,  the  anemones 
lie  in  drifts,  like  a  late  flurry  of  snow  and  quite 
as  evanescent,  lingering  in  the  shadows  only. 
These  are  the  delicate  children  of  April ;  May  is 
their  foster-mother.  Contact  with  them  is  like  the 
glimpse  of  a  spirituelle  face.  But  the  adder's-tongue 
which  nestles  by  the  brook  has  more  fire  in  its 
veins  than  the  rest.  Its  spotted  leaves  give  it  an 
almost  feline  beauty  as  it  droops  with  the  southern 
languor  of  the  lily. 

Serenity  dwells  with  the  woodland  flowers. 
There  is  about  them  some  subtle  refinement  and 
exclusiveness.  They  appear  fit  symbols  of  lowliness 
and  modesty.  A  strip  of  woodland  beside  the  turn- 
pike is  like  an  ancient  chapel  left  amid  the  din 
and  hubbub  of  city  streets.  The  sturdier  plants, 
both  coarse  and  gay,  halt  at  the  edge  of  the  wood. 
Within,  the  light  is  subdued;  nothing  obtrudes 

i  61 


]  I  IN  THE  OPEN 


upon  the  eye  or  ear.  It  is  obvious  that  the  cathe- 
dral had  its  origin  in  the  forest.  What  a  fair  and 
devout  congregation  has  jack-in-the-pulpit,  where 
the  Canada  violet  stands  side  by  side  with  the  mede- 
ola  and  the  painted  trillium.  The  medeola  declines 
its  unfertilized  flower,  so  that  its  maiden  life  is  hid 
from  view  beneath  the  tri-leaved  canopy,  and  only 
in  its  mature  and  matronly  days  does  it  begin  to 
ascend  and  take  a  position  where  the  seed  shall 
crown  the  plant  and  be  in  evidence.  From  what 
insedt:  despoiler  is  this  shy  virgin  so  carefully  hid  ? 
It  seems  as  if  the  light  that  penetrates  these 
woods  has  undergone  a  change,  or  been  deprived 
of  some  of  its  rays,  so  that  the  wood  flowers  are 
nourished  by  a  finer  food  than  the  rest,  as  with 
ambrosia.  It  is  perhaps  the  subdued  light  which 
inspires  a  certain  solemn  and  hymn-like  quality  in 
the  notes  of  wood  birds,  as  in  the  thrushes  and  the 
altogether  dida&ic  tone  of  the  redeye.  There  is 
here  none  of  that  self-assertiveness  among  the 
flowers  that  is  to  be  observed  among  certain  groups 
of  plants ;  the  competitive  spirit  is  lacking.  Solo- 
mon's-seal,  bellworts  and  twisted-stalk,  like  mede- 
ola, are  rather  at  pains  to  conceal  themselves. 
There  is  no  self-advertising  among  them.  What 

62 


||  WILD  GARDENS 

could  be  more  unassuming  than  goldthread  and 
wood-sorrel  ?  They  live  close  to  the  soil  of  which 
they  are  the  offspring  —  a  rich,  odorous  soil,  black 
with  the  accumulated  nutriment  of  centuries.  He 
must  be  in  hot  haste  indeed  who  treads  on  a  patch 
of  mountain  wood-sorrel,  such  is  its  mute,  appeal- 
ing beauty.  It  holds  the  eye  and  stays  the  foot  of 
every  saunterer  in  the  woods. 

But  follow  the  by-roads  in  early  summer  and 
you  shall  have  very  different  company.  It  is  here 
you  will  find  the  sturdy  travelers,  who  will  go  the 
length  of  any  road  in  all  weathers;  and  there  are 
none  more  cheerful  and  uncomplaining.  They  have 
no  fault  to  find;  the  world  suits  them  very  well. 
You  must  be  prepared  to  greet  mullein  and  bur- 
dock as  equals.  Here  on  the  road  they  are  as  good 
as  any;  they  hobnob  with  the  rose.  Wild  carrot 
borders  the  dusty  lanes  with  a  fringe  of  lacework  -V 
a  real  lace  from  the  deft  hand  of  Nature.  There 
is  no  brighter  gold  than  the  St.-John's-wort,  albeit 
it  will  not  pass  current  in  the  town. 

The  winds  sow  the  fairest  hedge  by  the  road- 
side—  the  winds  and  the  birds;  it  seems  that  they 
take  kindly  to  these  wayfarers.  They  are  the  good 
fairies  who  plant  elder  and  blackberry  and  scatter 

63 


IN  THE  OPEN 


the  wild  rose.  Timothy  and  redtop  and  witch- 
grass  are  the  very  children  of  /Eolus.  The  pollen- 
bearing  wind  mothers  the  grass  and  plantain ;  the 
seed-carrying  wind  distributes  the  thistle  and  wil- 
low. Birds  are  very  willing  to  carry  cherry-pits 
provided  they  may  have  the  cherry  for  their 
trouble. 

The  breeze  comes  laden  with  thistle-down,  such 
fragile  craft  embark  on  these  untried  seas  with  all 
sails  set.  The  story  of  such  a  seed  would  read 
like  a  fairy  tale.  Has  not  the  wind  whispered 
daily  to  it  as  its  silken  sail  was  spread?  And  the 
seed  has  tugged  at  its  moorings  like  any  boat  till 
these  were  loosed  and  she  was  off,  beating  in  and 
out  among  the  high  blueberries  and  shadbushes 
of  the  pastures,  at  last  sailing  clear  of  all  such  reefs 
and  ascending  in  air  to  drift  out  into  the  open. 
How  it  rises  and  falls  on  the  currents,  like  a  ship 
riding  the  long  swells  of  the  sea;  again  it  drives 
free  before  the  wind  to  settle  down  at  last  in  some 
pasture.  If,  perchance,  such  a  seed  fall  on  stony 
ground  it  is  no  great  matter.  The  marvelous 
silken  sail  will  now  fall  away,  for  the  craft  has 
reached  port,  no  more  forever  to  sail  these  seas. 
On  occasion  one  is  caught  in  a  spider's  web,  where- 


1 

WILD  GARDENS 

upon  the  spider  comes  out  to  see  what  luck.  Evi- 
dently all  is  not  fish  that  comes  to  her  net.  But 
the  self-reliant  crane's  bill  looks  neither  to  bird 
nor  beast  nor  again  to  the  winds  of  heaven,  for  it 
does  its  own  planting,  flinging  the  seeds  away 
with  almost  an  intelligent  and  conscious  adtion. 

This  relation  between  the  wind  and  the  plants 
of  the  field  is  an  agreeable  stimulus  to  the  imagi- 
nation, in  a  matter-of-fadt  day  when  fairies  are 
not  so  common  as  of  old.  Consider  how  the 
breezes  have  blown  the  pollen  of  the  pine  and 
later  are  to  help  carry  the  seed  They  thus  serve 
the  trees  of  the  forest  and  the  grass  of  the  prairie. 
These  same  winds  urge  the  fruit  that  it  should 
leave  the  parent  tree.  "Come,  follow  us!"  say 
they,  and  first  gently  draw,  then  roughly  compel, 
till  the  apple  falls.  They  whisper  all  through  the 
summer  to  the  leaves  so  green,  and  at  length,  on 
October  days,  draw  them  irresistibly. 

Verily  of  wild  gardens  there  is  no  end;  our 
estates  are  without  number.  But  among  them  all 
the  mountain  is  unique,  for  to  ascend  is  like  going 
northward,  and  at  the  same  time  to  reverse  the 
season.  One,  which  I  climbed  the  middle  of  June, 
is  little  more  than  four  thousand  feet,  and  yet, 

65 


IN  THE  OPEN 

whereas  in  the  valley  there  were  daisies  and  wild 
carrot,  on  the  summit  the  wild  red  cherry  was 
just  in  bloom.  In  that  short  distance  one  walked 
upward  —  or  rather  backward  —  from  the  middle 
of  June  to  late  April.  Another  four  thousand  feet 
would  have  carried  one  back  into  the  depths  of 
winter.  The  seasons  are  thus  with  us  throughout 
the  summer;  we  have  only  to  go  up  in  the  air 
after  them. 

Warblers  were  nesting  on  the  mountain  slopes 
which  would  otherwise  hardly  have  been  found  at 
that  season  this  side  of  Canada,  such  as  the  black- 
throated  blue,  the  magnolia  and  myrtle.  The 
winter  wren  was  fairly  abundant,  and  on  the  very 
summit  a  snowbird  had  her  nest.  About  half  way 
up,  the  butternuts  of  the  ravine  gave  way  to  spruce 
and  balsam.  As  the  ascent  continued,  mountain- 
maple  and  mountain-ash  suggested  higher  latitudes. 
But  what  impressed  one  most  was  the  subtle  reces- 
sion to  the  early  year.  The  seasons  having  fairly 
begun  to  revolve,  it  was  as  though  some  power 
were  slowly  turning  them  back  again. 

Some  hundred  feet  or  more  up  the  face  of  an 
overhanging  cliff,  a  bower  of  columbines  hung  out 
into  the  grim  ravine.  They  were  clustered  just 

66 


||  WILD 

GARDENS 

i 

under  the  brink,  gems  of  the  first  water  in  a  rude 
setting.  The  red  blossoms  glowed  faintly  against 
the  bald  cliff  like  rubies  set  in  the  walls  of  a  rock 
temple.  From  under  the  roots  of  the  clinging 
spruce  a  small  stream  slid  like  molten  glass  over 
the  escarpment  above  and  burst  into  spray,  gently 
undulating  like  a  fine  veil,  as  it  descended  to  the 
pool  below  with  the  dominant  and  strenuous  song 
of  the  waterfall. 

Probably  honey  bees  do  not  leave  their  mountain 
meadows  for  this  dim  twilight  region,  though  they 
may  possibly  become  acquainted  with  these  hanging 
gardens  on  their  way  to  some  bee-tree  in  the 
woods.  It  is  left  to  the  wandering  bumblebee  to 
fertilize  most  woodland  flowers,  and  in  the  case  of 
the  columbine,  perhaps  to  the  humming-bird.  On 
the  same  cliff  were  tufts  of  the  alpine  woodsia 
and  dense  patches  of  rock-brake  —  but  these  stand 
in  no  need  of  the  bee. 

When,  at  some  three  thousand  feet,  wood- 
anemones  were  blooming,  summer  slipped  gently 
away  and  April  took  its  place.  It  seemed  quite 
natural  then  to  find  adder's-tongue  and  to  see 
wake-robins  and  bunchberry  everywhere.  The  last 
part  of  the  ascent  might  have  been  through  a 

6? 


IN  THE  OPEN 

swamp,  so  strong  was  the  suggestion  of  swamp 
life.  Spagnum  grew  in  places  along  the  trail,  and 
the  fern  moss  was  in  evidence  on  the  rocks.  False 
hellebore  was  abundant,  and  on  the  very  top  stood 
a  poison  sumac  —  a  typical  bog  plant.  Yet  the 
summit  was  rocky  and  covered  for  the  most  part 
with  stunted  balsam  as  thickly  matted  together  as 
a  hedge.  The  mountain  pokes  its  cold  head  up 
into  the  clouds,  and  is  continually  refreshed  by  the 
dews  of  heaven.  In  some  unaccountable  manner 
the  swamp  plants,  as  if  guided  by  instinft,  ascend 
and  find  their  natural  environment  at  the  top. 

When  I  descended,  it  was  to  leave  spring  behind 
with  every  step,  not  again  to  meet  her  in  that 
year. 


68 


WEEDS 


A  strange  analogy  exists  between  plant  life  and 
some  aspedts  of  human  life.  The  same  stern  neces- 
sity of  the  survival  of  the  fittest  —  physical  in 
one,  and  in  the  other  mental  and  spiritual  —  seems 
to  inhere  in  both.  Among  the  weeds,  competition 
is  the  dominant  note,  as  it  is  in  our  world.  In 
some  higher  circles  it  is  sounded  faintly,  while 
untold  legions  of  the  more  delicate  plants  —  like 
sensitive  natures  —  are  driven  to  the  wall,  unequal 
to  the  struggle. 

There  are  weeds  whose  ways  suggest  the  arro- 
gant monopoly,  and  others  which  recall  the  para- 
sites of  society.  The  dodder  fastens  upon  its  vidtim 
and  the  bindweed  throttles  the  innocent.  To  with- 
stand the  severe  competition  of  pigweed  and  rag- 
weed, the  garden  patch  requires  your  energy,  plus 
its  own;  and  the  more  war  is  waged  upon  these, 
the  more  does  it  seem  to  encourage  the  purslane, 
which  thrives  like  a  freebooter  in  this  sort  of 
warfare. 

69 


IN  THE  OPEN 

One  can  imagine  no  more  irrepressible  rabble 
than  these  weeds  of  the  garden.  They  seem  pos- 
sessed almost  of  a  conscious  life,  and  to  push  and 
shove  and  scramble  for  place  like  a  hard-headed, 
thick-skinned,  piratical  crew.  Many  of  them  are 
immigrants,  the  riffraff  of  Europe,  who  have 
found  their  way  to  our  shores,  some  to  become 
good  citizens,  and  others  to  remain  pestilent  anar- 
chists, opposed  to  the  law  and  order  of  the  kitchen- 
garden  and  rebelling  against  all  government  by  the 
hoe.  Yet  how  happy  are  the  bob-whites  and  the 
tree-sparrows  for  the  poor  seeds  of  the  ragweed 
when  the  snow  lies  deep.  They  repair  to  these  as 
to  an  unfailing  larder,  which  may  lie  between 
them  and  starvation  at  such  times.  Through  some 
kind  providence,  the  seeds  remain  into  the  winter 
to  be  shaken  down  upon  the  snow.  The  obnoxious 
weed  of  summer  rises  to  the  dignity  of  usefulness 
and  becomes  a  food  plant  —  grain  and  corn  to  the 
hungry  birds. 

There  are  weeds  and  there  are  weeds.  So  much 
depends  upon  the  point  of  view ;  is  it  a  weed  on 
the  lawn,  or  is  the  lawn  but  a  background  for  the 
dandelions  which  star  the  grass  ?  What  bright  day- 
stars  are  these  which  beam  upon  us  from  the 

70 


||  WEEDS 

orchards  and  by-roads  with  cheerful  golden  radi- 
ance! And  when  these  shining  stars  have  grown 
dim  and  faded  from  their  firmament  of  green,  there 
appear  in  their  place  such  white  wraiths  of  their 
former  selves  as  resemble  the  moon  seen  by  the 
light  of  day.  They  are  now  so  many  extind:  suns, 
so  many  ghosts  of  the  dandelions,  soon  dissolving 
into  still  less  substantial  state,  to  be  spirited  away 
on  the  winds. 

During  the  summer  the  common  dandelions 
gradually  disappear,  and  at  length  the  fall  dande- 
lions suddenly  spring  into  prominence,  poking  their 
flower-heads  up  on  long  scapes.  With  commend- 
able thrift  these  are  closed  every  night,  that  a  little 
pollen  may  not  be  wet  by  the  dew.  These  fall 
flowers  appear  to  be  more  numerous  even  than  the 
early  species.  They  can  sustain  themselves  in  tall 
grass  where  the  latter  could  not,  keeping  their 
flower-heads  always  floating  on  the  rising  tide  of 
green.  You  may  see  fields  of  red  clover  mixed 
with  dandelions,  while  the  Virginia  creeper  lies  in 
scarlet  splendor  along  stone  walls,  and  goldenrod 
and  asters  are  massed  on  the  borders  —  Elysian 
fields  surely.  The  play  of  light  and  color  is  a 
kind  of  music,  ancj  stimulates  one  to  some  inner 


IN  THE  OPEN 


hearing.  The  deaf  could  hear  this.  And  were  the 
blind  to  listen  to  the  crickets'  reverie,  they  might 
see  these  fields. 

Is  there  anywhere  a  more  audacious  beauty  than 
the  pokeweed  in  autumn?  It  flaunts  itself  in  your 
face — one  of  the  respectable  bourgeoisie  of  weeds, 
now  suddenly  arrayed  in  this  regal  fashion  and 
mocking  you  with  its  splendid  beauty.  A  weed! 
Why  are  not  roses  weeds  as  they  stand  all  forlorn 
before  this  voluptuous  child  of  the  people?  Out 
of  the  plebeian  rabble  there  comes  here  and  there 
such  a  superb  creature  as  this. 

Consider  the  milkweeds, —  a  family  of  beauties. 
Something  luxuriant  and  sensuous  there  is  in  their 
ample  proportions.  They  have  an  excessive  health, 
an  exuberance  of  vitality;  a  full-blooded  race,  if 
you  so  much  as  break  a  leaf  from  one  it  bleeds 
like  a  wounded  creature.  From  the  mud,  the 
swamp-milkweed  has  derived  some  rich  hue,  while 
the  butterfly-weed  in  the  pasture  has  caught  the 
very  sunshine  itself  and  become  a  living  flame. 
The  great  pod  of  the  milkweed  is  the  luxuriant 
fruit  of  this  fine  plant,  as  tropical  in  appearance 
as  any  mango  or  cocoa  bean.  When  it  is  ripe,  in 
place  of  a  luscious  flavor,  it  discloses  a  mass  of 
72 


I  ||WEEDS||  | 

finest  silk,  a  fluffy  ball.  Who  would  guess  the 
treasure  within  these  grotesque  pods  with  their 
long  beaks,  their  spines  and  wrinkles?  They  are 
like  curious  old  junks  with  a  cargo  of  rich  stuffs 
of  the  East,  which  children  —  young  pirates  that 
they  are  —  overhaul  on  the  high  seas  of  the  pasture 
and  despoil  of  their  treasure. 

It  is  the  sturdy  character,  if  nothing  more,  of 
some  weeds  which  constitutes  their  charm,  for 
health  is  beautiful  everywhere.  Ironweed  and  joe- 
pye-weed  are  such  lusty,  vigorous  plants,  and  bur- 
dock and  jimson-weed.  The  earth  shall  nourish 
them;  they  push  themselves  to  the  front;  they  do 
not  live  by  any  one's  favor.  How  can  the  impov- 
erished dust  of  the  roadside  sustain  these  burdocks 
with  their  incredible  leaves?  The  richest  swamp 
produces  no  such  extravagant  foliage.  As  for  the 
ironweed,  it  clothes  the  pastures  with  a  royal 
purple,  so  rich  a  hue  it  compels  the  eye,  and  is  a 
kind  of  stimulant.  One  may  become  mildly  in- 
toxicated with  such  color. 

In  August  the  high-roads  and  by-roads  are 
painted — stripes  of  gamboge  and  patches  of  delicate 
blue  —  and  all  because  of  some  weeds.  It  would 
be  worth  while  riding  through  the  country  at 

73 


||  IN  THE  OPEN 

this  season,  if  for  no  other  reason  than  this.  Vivid 
streaks  of  tansy  stretch  in  narrow  lines  for  rods  to- 
gether. Where  the  road  skirts  a  pond,  the  eye  is 
refreshed  by  the  pickerel-weed,  resting  like  aureoles 
above  the  surface  of  the  water.  In  the  fields 
beyond  is  the  celestial  blue  of  the  chicory  —  so 
common  a  weed,  so  divine  a  hue;  while  every- 
where a  fringe  of  wild  carrot  trails  in  the  dust, 
the  lace  border  of  that  gorgeous  mantle.  Such 
laces  and  jewels  nature  provides  if  you  are  but 
rich  enough  in  thought  to  possess  them. 

In  the  pastures  mullein  and  thistle  grow  side 
by  side,  two  pronounced  personalities,  as  differ- 
ent as  it  is  possible  to  be,  yet  nourished  by  the  same 
soil  and  under  the  same  conditions.  The  mullein 
seems  to  invite  you  to  take  hold  of  its  leaves, 
while  the  thistle  as  plainly  says,  Hands  off!  They 
suggest  similar  types  of  people,  one  bristling  and 
repellent,  the  other  suave  and  genial.  These  great 
flannel  leaves  of  the  mullein  are  caressing  and  soft 
to  the  touch.  Contaft  with  them  is  agreeable, 
well  nigh  soothing.  If,  perchance,  your  feelings 
have  been  ruffled  by  a  bellicose  thistle,  address 
yourself  to  the  tender  young  leaves  of  the  mullein 
and  you  shall  feel  their  soothing  effedt. 

74 


WEEDS 

The  perfume  of  the  Canada  thistle  is  equal  to 
that  of  most  wild  flowers  and  superior  to  many. 
It  is  wholly  refined,  with  no  taint  of  coarseness. 
With  what  vulgar  effrontery  a  cheap  perfume 
assails  the  nose.  But  here  is  a  despised  thistle 
which  brings  itself  to  notice  by  an  influence  not 
plebeian  but  patrician.  You  might  pass  this  thistle 
day  in  and  day  out  and  never  suspeft  it  had  any 
such  virtue,  till  you  had  gone  out  of  your  way  to 
cultivate  a  closer  acquaintance.  Call  it  a  weed  if 
you  will,  it  has  an  individuality  that  separates  it 
from  other  common  plants,  and  by  reason  of  which 
it  commands  attention. 

Floating  in  nebulous  masses  about  the  black- 
berry thicket,  the  delicately  conspicuous  hue  of 
the  fireweed  catches  the  eye.  If  you  will  but 
watch  the  slender  pods  you  may  now  and  again 
see  one  suddenly  open  and  its  four  walls  silently 
withdraw,  while  there  emerges  from  the  interior  a 
phantom  shape,  the  filmy  mass  of  pappus-down 
with  rows  of  golden  seeds  attached.  This  white 
cloud  of  silk  gradually  takes  shape,  as  the  mist 
might  rise  from  a  mountain  lake,  lingers  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  sails  away  on  a  passing  breeze — 
ethereal  still  as  the  mist  —  growing  less  and  less, 

75 


IN  THE  OPEN 


and  vanishing  at  length,  as  if  resolved  again  into 
the  invisible. 

Old  gravelly  roads,  which  meander  across  the 
pasture  and  seem  destitute  of  any  special  beauty, 
are  often  adorned  from  end  to  end  with  the  round- 
leaved  spurge,  of  richest  hue,  varying  from  maroon 
to  plum  color.  This  little  weed  is  so  unpreten- 
tious, so  sincerely  humble  and  unassuming,  that 
probably  very  few  ever  see  it  or  are  aware  of  its 
existence.  It  lies  prone  upon  the  earth,  where, 
once  it  attracts  the  attention,  it  is  seen  to  be  a 
beautiful  embroidery  on  the  bare  ground.  Here 
grows  the  poverty-grass  which  on  misty  days  is 
covered  with  dewdrops  —  incrusted  with  jewels  — 
while  more  pretentious  plants  are  not  decked  in 
any  such  beautiful  array.  The  mist  descends 
upon  the  poorest  of  them  all,  and  makes  that 
resplendent. 

In  the  society  of  weeds  there  is  this  tendency 
to  segregate,  quite  as  in  human  society.  Even  the 
beach  has  its  clique,  a  curious  throng  quite  distinct 
from  any  of  the  fields,  which  defy  the  encroach- 
ment of  the  waves.  About  these  coarse  weeds  of 
the  beach  is  something  peculiarly  in  keeping  with 
their  environment.  The  strange  spiny  fruit  of  the 

76 


WEEDS  || 

orache  suggest  sculpins,  or  some  sea-shells,  while 
the  innumerable  eredt  stems  of  the  spreading  house- 
leek  resemble  the  backbone  offish.  Carrying  with 
it  its  air-sacs  and  paraphernalia  of  the  sea,  the 
rockweed,  which  is  a  "weed"  of  another  world, 
grows  as  far  up  on  the  land  as  it  can  go,  while 
the  weeds  of  the  beach  approach  the  water  as 
near  as  they  dare.  Here  is  the  frontier,  the  edge 
of  their  world,  and  one  and  all  would  scramble 
over  the  border  could  they  sustain  life  on  the 
other  side. 


77 


INSECT  LORE 


Apis  the  bee,  Vespa  the  wasp,  and  Arachne  the 
spider  —  these  might  properly  figure  in  many  a 
saga.  Mighty  are  the  works  of  the  tribes  of  Apis, 
while  Bombus  the  bumblebee  befriends  the  pale 
flowers  of  the  forest  as  do  the  winds  the  pine. 
Arachne  beguiles  the  fly,  for  she  is  a  very  Medusa  ; 
the  solitary  wasp  slays  the  Gorgon  and  lays  her  in 
the  tomb  she  has  prepared,  rolling  a  stone  over 
the  entrance;  lastly,  from  the  body  of  the  spider 
springs  the  race  of  wasps,  like  warriors  from  drag- 
ons' teeth  in  the  days  of  Jason. 

From  the  first  flowering  shrubs  to  the  last  gold- 
enrod  there  is  the  hum  of  industry.  The  willows, 
on  mild  April  days,  resound  with  the  roar  of  in- 
sedt  traffic.  The  bees  push  in  rudely  among  the 
bunches  of  stamens,  and  the  red  anthers  so  neatly 
and  compaftly  arranged  are  soon  disheveled,  the 
filaments  bent  by  the  myriad  insed:  legs  which 
scramble  and  kick  through  them.  It  is  every- 
where bustle  and  hurry;  all  are  wrought  to  a 


INSECT 

LORE  1  1                        | 

tense  degree.  Life  is  here  at  a  white  heat  —  pur- 
poseful, Anglo-Saxon ;  yet  it  appears  to  move  with- 
out fridHon.  Occasionally  a  bee  visits  the  meek- 
looking  pistillate  shrub  near  by,  which  patiently 
waits  while  the  buzz  and  din  continue  uninter- 
rupted across  the  path. 

It  is  always  a  mystery  just  how  the  honey-bee 
transfers  the  pollen  to  the  pollen-basket  —  even  in 
view  of  the  explanation.  It  appears  to  be  scraped 
from  one  leg  to  the  other,  and  gradually  shifted 
from  fore  to  aft  by  a  dexterous  process  until  lodged 
in  the  proper  place,  the  bee  remaining  all  the 
time  on  the  wing  so  that  the  legs  are  moved  with 
perfed:  freedom.  Finally  it  is  stowed  more  neatly 
and  compadJy  than  any  pack-mule's  load,  and  the 
panniers  are  good  to  see,  rich  and  yellow  as  pump- 
kins glistening  in  the  corn  field.  Doubtless  the 
bee  is  careful  to  keep  the  balance  and  not  put 
more  in  one  basket  than  in  the  other.  Since  pollen- 
grains  are  of  distinct  and  definite  shapes  in  differ- 
ent plants,  is  it  not  possible  that  the  insed:,  from 
its  near  point  of  view,  dete&s  these  differences,  and 
in  place  of  so  much  indistinguishable  dust,  finds 
itself  handling  minute  cubes,  spheres  and  variously 
shaped  blocks  ? 

79 


|  IN  THE  OPEN 

How  readily  bees  are  apprised  of  the  blossom- 
ing of  any  flower.  On  the  very  instant  the  dwarf- 
sumacs  open,  the  place  hums  with  them.  Solitary 
bumblebees  continually  scout  through  the  woods 
and  discover  when  the  Indian-pipe,  the  shinleaf, 
the  pipsissewa  are  in  bloom.  Only  the  queen 
bumblebee  can  have  any  memory  of  these  flowers, 
as  the  life  of  the  workers  is  but  a  season  long. 
Probably  they  do  not  communicate  the  news,  but 
each  hunts  for  itself.  With  the  honey-bees,  how- 
ever, this  is  the  gossip  of  the  hive  as  much  as  the 
state  of  the  crops  with  farmers :  "  Meadow  sweet 
is  open  today!"  "Clethra  is  in  bloom!"  "The 
first  goldenrod!"  Imagine  the  news  circulating 
like  wildfire  through  the  hives.  Honey-bees  have 
little  time  or  patience  to  hunt  up  solitary  and 
retiring  flowers.  They  want  masses  of  bloom, 
fields  of  blossom,  having  a  large  work  to  do  —  a 
city  to  build,  a  host  to  feed. 

The  bumblebee  is  the  good  angel  of  the  wood- 
land flowers,  the  visiting  priest  —  or  shall  I  say 
priestess  —  to  all  outlying  parishes,  calling  at  every 
ledge  and  gorge  and  dell  where  is  any  colony  of 
blossoms  or  a  lone  settler  or  two.  The  bee  dis- 
covers the  pale  pendent  blossoms  of  the  checker- 
So 


INSECT  LORE 

berry  under  the  leaves  and  almost  prone  upon  the 
ground.  In  order  to  reach  them  it  sometimes 
turns  on  its  back  upon  the  hemlock  needles  as  it 
inserts  its  tongue  in  the  flower  above.  In  winter 
when  you  gather  a  checkerberry  now  and  then  in 
your  walk  you  shall  bestow  a  thought  upon  the 
buzzing  priest  of  Flora  who  solemnized  these 
nuptials.  It  visits  every  flower  in  the  transparent 
groups  of  Indian-pipes  which  push  their  way  up 
through  the  leaf  mould  to  stand  like  an  assembly 
of  the  pale-sheeted  dead,  and  looks  singularly  rich 
and  velvety  against  these  stems  of  alabaster.  Here 
is  a  botanist  who  knows  the  flora  well,  and  takes 
a  tithe  from  every  blossom  to  which  is  brought  a 
grain  of  pollen  —  the  marriage  fee.  It  is  hard  to 
believe  so  willing  an  agent  is  unaware  of  the  ser- 
vice ;  that  it  fills  an  office  which  it  does  not  recog- 
nize, while  we,  the  biographers,  alone  perceive 
the  relation. 

Tell  me,  is  there  not  something  heroic  in  the 
life  of  the  queen  bumblebee?  She  awakens  after 
her  winter  sleep,  the  sole  survivor  of  her  race,  and 
bravely  goes  forth  to  colledt  pollen,  lay  her  eggs 
and  become  the  founder  of  a  new  race  of  workers. 
There  is  rude  and  virile  romance  in  the  life  of 

81 


1 

IN  THE  OPEN 

1 

this  bee  with  its  flavor  of  the  forest.  She  is  the 
queen-mother  indeed,  no  mere  figurehead,  but 
strong,  capable,  self-reliant.  Think  of  her  retiring 
under  the  moss  and  leaves  at  the  approach  of 
winter,  the  last  of  her  race;  or,  rather,  do  they 
all  resign  themselves  to  a  sleep  from  which  she 
alone  is  to  awaken.  She  remains  encircled  by 
Cold  —  as  Brunhilde  was  engirdled  with  Fire  — 
till  the  sun  shall  cross  the  magic  line  and  awaken 
the  sleeping  Amazon. 

Today  I  split  open  a  dead  twig  of  sumac  in 
which  the  little  upholsterer-bee  had  laid  her  eggs. 
From  the  summit  a  well  or  shaft  was  sunk  some 
ten  inches  through  the  central  pith.  This  I  cau- 
tiously descended  by  means  of  a  jack-knife  and 
found  it  partitioned  into  a  dozen  cells,  in  each  of 
which  lay  a  pupa,  the  pallid  sleepers  like  mummies 
in  their  royal  tombs  awaiting  a  resurrection. 

The  cells  were  lined  —  upholstered  —  in  silk 
and  partitioned  from  each  other  by  walls  of  chips 
cemented  together.  In  some  cases  the  pupa  was 
being  devoured  by  the  minute  larvae  of  a  chalcid 
fly,  and  in  one  cell  only  the  dried  skin  remained. 
For  that  pupa  there  was  to  be  no  resurrection  into 
the  life  of  the  bee,  but  as  the  cell  was  opened,  out 
82 


INSECT 

LORE  1  1 

stepped  a  tiny  chalcid  into  the  light  of  day,  its 
dapper  little  person  shining  blue-black  and  its 
minute  wings  of  an  iridescent  green. 

You  may  see  many  broken  twigs  of  sumac,  elder 
and  blackberry,  perforated  at  the  end  in  evidence 
that  in  the  cells  below  are  the  larvae  of  a  bee,  or 
perhaps  the  pupae  wrapped  in  their  transforming 
slumbers.  This  sepulcher  is  sign  to  the  chalcid 
fly  as  well.  In  one  such  that  I  opened  were 
several  perfeft  bees,  beautiful  little  green  creatures. 
Immediately  they  stepped  out  upon  my  hand  and 
began  dusting  and  cleaning  themselves,  but  ap- 
peared to  be  troubled  by  the  brightness,  and  eager 
to  hide.  When  offered  the  open  end  of  a  tube, 
such  as  they  had  recently  come  from,  they  seemed 
glad  to  enter.  They  were  not  yet  fitted  for  contadt 
with  the  world  of  light  and  preferred  to  return  to 
the  darkness  and  security  of  their  cells.  A  spider 
had  concealed  herself  in  a  silken  room  at  the 
mouth  of  one  tube,  perhaps  seeking  this  privacy 
in  which  to  change  her  skin.  When  their  time  had 
come  to  emerge,  the  inmates  would  naturally  have 
walked  into  the  spider's  den,  while  the  light  of  day 
appeared  beyond,  but  for  a  single  instant,  as  a  faint 
glimmer  which  they  were  destined  never  to  reach. 

83 


IN  THE  OPEN  || 

However,  there  is  a  Theseus  for  every  monster. 
A  spider  was  one  day  spinning  her  web  in  an 
outer  angle  of  the  veranda,  laying  the  first  strands, 
the  scaffolding.  Attaching  one  point  she  swung 
out  on  her  line  and  fixed  a  second,  aided  by  the 
breeze.  Without  the  wind  she  perhaps  could  not 
have  erefted  her  scaffolding  in  that  place.  The 
morning  sunlight  caught  these  first  threads, 
stretched  from  post  to  beam,  and  they  gleamed 
like  silver  or  spun  glass.  At  length  a  wide  space 
was  to  be  bridged  and  she  swung  free  at  the  end 
of  a  long  strand.  The  breeze  carried  her  to  and 
fro,  far  out  from  under  the  roof,  so  that  she 
remained  suspended  in  mid-air. 

But  other  eyes  were  watching  her  at  her  work. 
As  she  swung  thus,  self-possessed  and  at  ease,  sud- 
denly a  mud-dauber  pounced  upon  her.  The  silver 
strand  parted  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  spider  was 
carried  to  the  beam  above,  where  the  wasp  appar- 
ently stung  her  several  times.  A  moment  after 
she  rose  in  air  holding  the  large  globular  spider, 
now  paralyzed  and  inert,  and  sailed  away  over  the 
tree-tops  in  the  direction  of  her  nest.  The  viftim 
was  to  be  immured  in  a  sarcophagus  of  mud 
together  with  the  egg  of  the  wasp.  When  the 

84 


OF  THE 

UNWERS1TT 

?ALIF05^ 


INSECT 

LORE  1  1 

egg  hatched,  the  larva  in  this  tomb  with  the  body 
of  the  spider  would  find  such  gruesome  state  con- 
genial enough  —  being  of  the  wasps.  In  this  case 
a  spider  the  less  means  a  wasp  the  more. 

Late  one  afternoon  a  spider  was  constructing 
her  web.  She  already  had  her  first  line  stretched 
between  two  small  shrubs.  On  this  she  crossed 
and  recrossed  several  times,  each  trip  reeling  out 
a  new  strand  from  her  spinnerets,  until  she  had  a 
stout  cable  from  which  the  gossamer  structure  was 
to  depend.  From  an  end  of  this  she  dropped  to 
the  ground  and  fastened  a  thread,  then  ascended, 
traversed  the  cable  and  dropped  lines  from  the 
other  end  to  the  twigs  beneath.  All  were  remark- 
ably taut  and  firm.  By  crossing  two  she  now 
established  the  center  of  the  web  —  not  the  geo- 
metric center — and  from  the  overhead  cable  spun 
some  radii  to  this  point  and  from  this  to  the  lower 
strand.  In  an  incredibly  short  time  she  had  lines 
radiating  in  all  directions  from  the  center  like  the 
spokes  of  a  wheel. 

She  now  fairly  ran  over  these  spokes  paying  out 
the  strand  as  she  laid  the  spiral  web  upon  the 
gleaming  radii.  Starting  at  the  center  she  traveled 
from  left  to  right,  passing  the  thread  through  the 

8s 


||  IN  THE  OPEN 

claw  of  one  of  the  last  pair  of  legs.  By  this  means 
it  was  held  from  her  as  far  as  possible  and  quickly 
attached  to  each  of  the  radii.  A  very  short  time 
sufficed  for  her  to  complete  this  spiral  of  perhaps 
a  foot  in  diameter,  and  she  had  only  to  return 
over  the  ground  with  the  final  thread,  on  which 
are  strung  the  viscid  drops. 

She  paused  as  if  resting,  and  in  that  moment  a 
Social  wasp  descended  like  a  fury  and  bore  her  to 
the  ground.  The  wasp  quickly  rose  holding  the 
spider  in  her  embrace,  and  returning  to  the  bush 
suspended  herself  by  one  hind  claw.  Here  she 
held  the  body  of  the  spider  with  two  pair  of  legs, 
and  turning  it  about,  as  though  it  were  on  a  spit, 
bit  off  some  of  the  head  parts  with  her  strong 
jaws  which  worked  like  a  pair  of  shears.  So  near 
was  I  that  I  could  see  these  jaws  meet  and  sever 
the  thorax,  which  fell  and  glanced  from  a  leaf  a 
few  inches  below  with  the  faintest  imaginable 
sound.  The  wasp  then  proceeded  to  tear  open  the 
abdomen.  The  builder  of  gossamer  bridges,  who 
overcame  space  and  flung  her  nets  to  the  breeze, 
was  no  more.  I  looked  again  at  the  unfinished 
web  and  in  it  struggled  a  small  fly. 

In  stretching  the  first  strand  the  spider  avails 

86 


INSECT  LORE  |  [ 


herself  of  the  wind  to  some  extent.  When  crossing 
from  one  point  to  another  it  is  by  no  means  nec- 
essary she  should  drop  from  a  height  equal  to  the 
distance  to  be  crossed;  for  if  the  wind  is  strong 
enough  she  has  but  to  descend  a  little  way,  and 
then,  as  it  holds  her  out  at  right  angles,  she  pays 
out  the  line  and  so  continues  moving  in  mid-air. 
As  soon  as  she  comes  in  contadt  with  some  objed: 
she  at  once  attaches  her  thread.  I  have  more  than 
once  observed  a  spider  drop  a  short  distance  when 
there  was  no  breeze  to  carry  her,  but  by  the  move- 
ment of  her  body  she  imparted  a  slight  motion  to 
the  line  and  thus  set  herself  to  gyrating  until  she 
finally  swung  across  the  intervening  space. 

The  spinners  of  flat  webs  in  the  grass  are  asso- 
ciated with  dog-days  and  with  foggy  weather,  as 
if  they  spread  their  tents  only  at  such  times  to 
fold  them  again  and  steal  away  with  the  appear- 
ance of  the  sun.  As  a  matter  of  fadt  these  spiders 
work  in  clear  weather  and  at  different  hours  of 
the  day,  but  the  web  is  so  fine  as  to  be  next  to 
invisible  unless  covered  with  moisture,  when  it  at 
once  attracts  the  eye,  like  a  writing  in  invisible 
ink  which  becomes  manifest  only  under  the  right 
conditions. 


|                         ||  IN  THE  OPEN 

There  are  other  spiders  which  become  evident 
only  at  the  approach  of  winter.  It  is  something 
to  the  credit  of  these  small  spiders  that,  being 
without  wings,  they  should  still  aspire  to  fly; 
whereas  the  ants,  born  with  wings,  are  in  haste  to 
tear  them  off.  The  past  year  they  were  so  in  evi- 
dence on  the  iith  of  November  that  I  shall 
henceforth  associate  that  day  with  the  flight  of  the 
Erigone.  The  weather  was  cool,  but  with  a  sug- 
gestion of  Indian  summer  in  the  air.  I  first  no- 
ticed the  spiders  on  top  of  a  hill,  for  the  bare 
twigs  of  sumacs  were  streaming  with  gossamer 
threads  which  shone  like  silver.  From  time  to 
time  little  spiders  descended  from  the  upper  regions 
and  ran  about  over  my  coat.  One,  which  was 
spinning  threads  on  my  sleeve,  finally  ran  out  upon 
my  hand  and,  elevating  its  spinnerets,  began  paying 
out  a  line,  which  I  could  see  as  I  held  it  against 
the  sun.  When  this  had  reached  a  length  of 
several  feet  the  little  spider  was  whisked  off  by 
the  breeze  and  carried  away. 

Toward  sunset  a  delicate  network  of  gossamer 
threads  covered  the  open  pastures  like  a  silver 
mesh  in  which  the  earth  lay  captive.  These 
minute  spiders  have  a  way  at  this  time  of  allowing 

88 


INSECT  LORE 

the  strands  to  be  drawn  from  their  spinnerets  by 
the  wind,  until  they  carry  sail  enough  to  be  lifted 
off  their  feet.  They  fly  away  thus  on  the  wings 
of  the  winds,  perhaps  carried  high  above  the  earth 
by  ascending  currents.  Lo,  the  hegira  of  the 
spiders ! 

It  would  appear  that  the  Solitary  wasps  are  more 
ingenious  and  self-reliant,  and  less  governed  by 
tradition,  than  the  Social  bees  and  wasps;  for  I 
have  seen  a  small  black  one  which  was  unable  to 
rise  on  the  wing  with  the  large  spider  it  was 
carrying,  finally  drag  it  up  the  trunk  of  an  oak  to 
the  height  of  seven  feet  and  from  that  vantage  fly 
away.  Such  an  one  pulled  a  spider  much  larger 
than  herself  up  on  my  knee  and  left  it  there, 
paralyzed  but  alive,  while  she  made  explorations, 
after  which  she  returned  and  took  it  away.  As  I 
was  making  some  notes  at  the  time  with  reference 
to  wasps,  the  incident  made  a  pleasant  impression, 
quite  as  though  she  had  taken  me  into  her  confi- 
dence and  had  gone  out  of  her  way  to  reveal  some 
fafts  of  her  life. 

One  day  I  encountered  a  sand-wasp  which  had 
just  stung  a  wireworm  and  was  dragging  it  over 
the  ground.  The  worm,  which  resembled  a  brown 

89 


1 

IN  THE  OPEN 

twig,  was  three  inches  long  and  as  large  around  as 
a  slate-pencil,  while  the  wasp  was  not  over  an 
inch  and  a  quarter  in  length  and  very  slender. 
Seizing  the  vidtim  in  her  jaws  and  straddling  it, 
the  wasp  walked  along  in  this  uncomfortable 
fashion,  over  ground  strewn  with  pebbles  and 
partly  covered  with  brush.  Difficulties  were  many, 
and  she  was  kept  constantly  pulling,  tugging  and 
boosting  to  get  the  worm  along. 

At  length  she  penetrated  the  brush  and  came 
out  bearing  the  worm  into  an  open  gravelly  space. 
Here  she  turned  off  sharply  for  a  distance  of  two 
yards,  and,  after  running  nervously  to  and  fro, 
stopped  in  front  of  a  small  hole.  She  had  been 
over  an  hour  dragging  the  worm.  During  that 
time  one  main  direction  had  been  followed,  though 
never  had  she  to  my  knowledge  left  her  burden 
and  risen  above  the  brush  and  trees  to  get  her 
bearings;  yet  she  found  her  way  unerringly,  and 
only  turned  aside  because  of  the  boulders  and 
clumps  of  white  birch  stumps.  The  whole  distance 
was  about  forty  feet  in  a  straight  line,  but  further 
as  the  wasp  had  gone. 

Backing  into  the  hole,  she  seized  the  worm  and 
attempted  to  drag  it  in  after  her,  but  the  entrance 

90 


|  INSECT 

LORE  || 

proved  too  small.  She  therefore  came  out  and 
began  rapidly  enlarging  it  by  seizing  bits  of  gravel 
with  her  jaws  and  fore  legs,  rising  in  the  air  and 
carrying  them  off  six  or  eight  inches.  Again  she 
entered,  and  this  time  was  able  to  pull  the  worm 
in  after  her.  She  remained  three  or  four  minutes 
in  the  hole,  during  which  time  she  was  depositing 
her  eggs,  then  her  head  reappeared  at  the  opening. 

She  now  began  filling  in.  Dropping  two  or 
more  bits  of  gravel,  she  would  then  turn  her  back 
and  rapidly  scratch  in  dirt  with  her  fore  legs,  evi- 
dently to  fill  up  the  interstices.  Twice  she  took 
out  a  bit  of  gravel  and  carried  it  away,  precisely 
as  a  mason  might  throw  aside  a  stone  that  was  not 
the  right  shape  or  size.  As  her  head  was  thus 
inserted  in  the  hole  a  black  ant  approached  and 
peered  into  the  depths.  Suddenly  the  wasp  turned 
and  gave  one  look,  whereupon  the  ant  fled  in 
haste. 

When  the  hole  was  filled  to  the  brim  she 
tamped  it  down  with  her  head.  This  occupied 
her  some  minutes  and  she  appeared  to  take  the 
utmost  care.  Gravel  was  then  brought  and  piled 
upon  the  spot  until  it  exactly  resembled  its  sur- 
roundings. The  stones  carried  varied  in  size  from 

91 


IN  THE  OPEN 

i 

those  as  large  as  a  buckshot  to  some  the  size  of  a 
marrowfat  pea.  They  were  lifted  and  carried 
seemingly  without  effort,  and  dropped  almost 
before  one  could  see  what  she  was  about.  Twenty 
minutes  were  consumed  in  filling  up  the  hole  and 
restoring  the  surface. 

On  a  sudden  she  vanished,  and  with  her  van- 
ished the  place  itself  where  she  had  been  at  work. 
It  was  as  if  a  trap-door  had  closed,  and  no  sign 
was  left.  So  carefully  had  she  done  her  work  and 
so  closely  imitated  the  surroundings,  like  a  miser 
burying  his  gold,  it  was  only  after  careful  search 
I  could  again  locate  the  spot. 

Thus  in  the  economy  of  Nature  every  insecl: 
appears  to  be  food  for  some  other.  On  the  leaves 
of  the  Virginia  creeper  you  may  usually  find, 
in  early  autumn,  some  caterpillars  which  have 
received  the  eggs  of  a  small  chalcid  fly.  These 
caterpillars,  otherwise  so  large  and  green  and  awe- 
some to  the  beholder,  have  become  limp  and  lean 
and  have  an  aged  and  decrepit  look.  They  hold 
feebly  to  the  vine  but  no  longer  eat  anything.  I 
brought  home  one  of  them  and  in  a  short  time 
there  emerged  from  its  body  a  great  number  of 
small  white  grubs,  fifty  or  more  by  actual  count. 

92 


INSECT  LORE 


Upon  the  back  of  their  emaciated  host  they  pro- 
ceeded to  spin  for  themselves  marvelous  little 
cocoons  of  white  silk  which  they  did  in  a  very 
brief  time.  Moving  their  heads  this  way  and  that 
they  spun  the  fine  threads  about  themselves  until 
they  were  completely  enveloped.  Here  were  a 
great  number  of  little  spinners,  making  for  them- 
selves garments  of  silk,  and  at  last  spinning  them- 
selves out  of  sight.  The  caterpillar  now  bristled 
with  the  small  white  cocoons  which  stood  upon 
end  on  its  back,  "where  they  were  attached,  and 
almost  hid  it  from  view. 

The  wary  caterpillar  has  many  foes.  If  it 
escapes  the  hungry  warblers  and  vireos,  there  is 
still  the  army  of  goggle-eyed  wasps  and  nervous 
ichneumons  to  circumvent.  Yet  a  prodigious  num- 
ber survive.  Were  it  not  for  their  enemies  they 
would  overrun  the  earth.  The  butterflies  sporting 
in  the  sunshine,  and  the  small  moths  flitting  about 
the  lamp,  have  come  through  many  perils,  and 
may  almost  be  said  to  have  lived  by  their  wits,  so 
astonishing  are  the  ruses  they  have  devised  to 
deceive  their  pursuers. 


93 


THE  WAYS  OF  THE 
ANT 


If  you  would  see  the  ants  to  advantage  —  to 
your  own,  that  is  —  you  must  turn  over  a  pasture 
stone  under  which  one  of  the  species  of  small 
yellow  ants  has  its  nest.  By  thus  gently  remov- 
ing the  roof,  if  it  is  a  good-sized  stone,  the 
whole  colony  will  be  in  view  at  once.  The  red- 
ant  hill  presents  difficulties.  To  dig  into  it  or  to 
pull  it  apart  is  quite  useless,  as  the  earth  falls  in 
and  nothing  is  to  be  seen  but  a  struggling  heap  of 
dusty  and  indignant  ants.  It  rarely  happens  that 
such  a  hill  may  be  built  around  a  small  boulder. 
If  this  boulder  is  suddenly  and  deftly  removed,  not 
dragged  or  rolled  aside,  but  lifted  clear  of  the  hill 
so  that  the  sides  of  the  nest  may  not  be  broken  in, 
a  remarkable  scene  is  disclosed. 

I  have  found  such  an  ant  hill,  and  by  removing 
the  stone  the  household  was  placed  on  exhibition  — 
but  not  all  its  secrets  revealed  by  any  means.  From 
several  large  chambers,  now  roofless,  galleries  and 
corridors  radiated  in  all  directions.  The  instant 

94 


||  THE 

WAYS 

OF 

THE 

ANT 

the  stone  was  lifted  the  ants  swarmed  from  the 
galleries  into  these  chambers,  which  were  packed 
with  the  large  cocoons.  There  were  thousands  of 
pupae,  of  a  delicate  brown  tint,  looking  wonder- 
fully clean  and  fresh,  but  with  such  celerity  did 
the  ants  work  that  inside  of  ten  minutes  all  were 
carried  from  view. 

Among  the  rest  were  perhaps  a  dozen  young 
ants,  the  head  and  thorax  being  white  and  the 
abdomen  a  pale  mauve.  These  creatures  moved 
feebly  about,  taking  no  interest  in  the  proceedings, 
and  were  for  the  most  part  seized  by  the  workers 
and  conveyed  into  the  galleries.  Apparently  they 
were  individuals  that  had  just  emerged  from  their 
pupa-cases. 

Under  another  large  stone  were  two  very  num- 
erous colonies  living  side  by  side,  of  different 
species.  The  nests  were,  of  course,  entirely  sep- 
arate and  under  opposite  ends  of  the  stone.  The 
smaller  of  the  two  appeared  to  be  stinging  ants, 
for  they  clustered  in  great  numbers  over  their 
small  pupae,  elevating  their  abdomens  in  a  threat- 
ening manner  like  so  many  diminutive  scorpions. 
The  other  species  were  large  and  aftive  ants  of  a 
polished  bronze  hue.  Their  pupae  were  naked, 

95 


1 

IN 

THE 

OPEN  1  1 

which  gave  the  nest  the  appearance  of  being  filled 
with  grains  of  rice. 

These  large  ants  set  to  work  with  frenzied 
activity  and  removed  all  of  their  own  pupae.  Then, 
and  not  until  then,  they  swarmed  over  into  the 
adjoining  nest  and  began  carrying  the  cocoons  of 
the  small  ants  back  into  their  own  nest.  Now  and 
then  some  small  ant  bolder  than  the  rest  would 
resist,  and  an  individual  combat  ensued  which 
ended  by  the  large  ant  carrying  off  her  small 
antagonist.  There  was,  however,  very  little  resist- 
ance of  this  sort,  and  the  pillage,  if  such  it  were, 
continued  until  the  remaining  cocoons  had  all 
been  carried  over  into  the  nest  of  the  large  ants. 
So  few  of  the  small  ants  made  any  resistance  that 
it  gave  one  the  agreeable  impression  the  larger 
ants  were  only  offering  assistance.  But  I  failed  to 
find  on  subsequent  visits  that  they  had  returned 
the  pupae.  And  although  they  daily  brought  their 
own  pupas  out  of  the  galleries,  the  smaller  cocoons 
never  more  came  to  view,  and  the  small  ants  sub- 
sequently abandoned  their  nest.  Thereafter  I  felt 
some  compun&ion  in  thus  disturbing  a  whole 
community  for  mere  curiosity. 

It  is  noticeable  above  all  how  the  ants  at  such 


]  [  THE  WAYS  OF  THE  ANT 


times  take  no  thought  for  their  own  safety,  but 
for  that  of  their  charge  solely.  Whether  their 
interest  is  in  any  sense  maternal  or  merely  a  prop- 
erty interest  does  not  appear.  Another  feature 
evident  in  disturbing  a  formicary  is  the  general 
harmony  in  which  the  individuals  of  any  one 
colony  work  together.  Here  is  no  less  than  a 
catastrophe,  as  if  the  roof  of  one's  house  were  sud- 
denly to  be  removed  and  everything  upset.  And 
yet  not  one  runs  away  or  apparently  conflicts  with 
any  other.  There  are  no  cross  purposes;  no  two 
get  in  each  other's  way;  but  animated  by  a  com- 
mon motive,  and  by  one  only,  the  community 
proceeds  with  despatch  to  the  work  in  hand. 

Is  this  socialism  among  ants  something  preor- 
dained for  them  as  the  condition  of  their  life,  or  is 
it  in  part  an  acquired  tendency  of  the  ants  them- 
selves ?  That  they  do  acquire  tendencies  would  seem 
clear  enough.  If  it  should  be  proven  that  this  social 
state  is  in  fad:  the  result  of  an  evolution  among 
them,  it  would  be  one  of  the  most  significant  fadts 
of  natural  history. 

It  serves  the  community  admirably  at  any  rate. 
But  with  them  the  individual  does  not  count.  Ants 
are  ahead  of  us  in  one  resped:  in  that  they  have 

97 


IN  THE  OPEN  [ 


order  without  coercion.  There  is  such  harmony, 
such  co-operation  among  them,  they  have  evolved 
no  ruling  class,  the  queens  being  such  only  in  name 
and  more  properly  the  mother  ants.  The  life  of  the 
community  is  all,  and  every  one  looks  out  for  it. 

On  warm  afternoons  early  in  September  you 
may  look  for  the  swarming  of  the  queens,  when 
myriads  of  ants  sail  into  the  air  in  their  desultory 
marriage  flight.  In  apparently  endless  succession 
they  pass,  every  now  and  then  one  alighting, 
whereupon  begins  the  curious  part  of  the  perform- 
ance, for  they  run  rapidly  about,  throwing  them- 
selves upon  their  backs  to  squirm  from  side  to 
side  after  the  manner  of  a  dog  scratching.  They 
then  get  upon  all  sixes  and  continue  running  to 
and  fro.  After  these  contortions  the  wings  wear 
a  most  disheveled  appearance,  and,  as  the  process 
continues,  become  more  and  more  crumpled,  until 
at  length  one  or  more  are  missing. 

Sometimes  in  sheer  desperation  an  ant  will  lie 
on  her  back  and  revolve  rapidly  in  this  position. 
In  some  cases  the  wings  seem  to  resist  all  attempts 
to  remove  them  and  the  ants  redouble  their  efforts. 
Their  frenzy  appears  to  know  no  bounds;  they 
fairly  stand  on  their  heads  and  repeatedly  fall  over 


1  1  THE  WAYS  OF  THE  ANT 

miniature  precipices  and  into  Lilliputian  crevices 
in  their  blind  determination  to  tear  off  the  wings. 
Again  they  seem  to  use  their  legs  as  though  trying 
to  twist  off  a  wing.  It  is  the  most  fanatical  per- 
formance to  be  witnessed  among  insedls. 

Such  dogged  persistence  must  sooner  or  later 
attain  its  end,  and  presently  the  ant  is  seen  running 
about  wingless  or  perhaps  with  only  a  torn  stub 
left.  The  behavior  is  no  longer  frantic  as  before, 
but  she  now  moves  about  as  if  enjoying  great 
relief.  During  one  such  flight  great  numbers  came 
down  into  a  gravelly  path  through  a  huckleberry 
patch.  They  apparently  avoided  the  bushes  on 
either  hand,  and  chose  to  alight  in  the  path,  for 
it  was  alive  with  ants  twisting  and  turning  and 
wriggling  upon  their  backs  in  the  gravel.  Others, 
having  gotten  rid  of  their  wings,  were  attempting 
to  go  head  foremost  into  the  ground,  possibly  with 
a  view  of  laying  their  eggs,  or  merely  because  the 
soil  was  their  natural  element. 

Around  the  formicary  itself  the  workers  were 
grouped  en  masse,  endeavoring  either  to  restrain 
the  new  brood  of  queens  in  the  old  colony  or  to 
coerce  them  into  leaving.  They  appeared  to  drive 
them  as  a  squad  of  police  might  force  back  a 

99 


IN  THE 

OPEN  1  1 

crowd.  But  it  is  manifestly  difficult  to  interpret 
their  motives  with  any  assurance,  and  it  is  more 
likely  they  were  provoking  them  to  flight.  At 
such  times  they  ascend  the  branches  of  a  bush 
and  colled:  in  excited  little  groups  on  the  buds 
and  flowers  around  the  females,  as  if  determined 
they  should  go.  No  doubt  it  is  an  exciting  day 
with  them,  a  sort  of  Labor  Day  demonstration. 
In  this  case  it  is  the  womenfolk  who  are  thus 
bent  on  asserting  their  rights  and  doing  as  they 
will.  But  why,  having  once  ascended  into  the 
larger  world  and  the  liberty  of  winged  creatures, 
must  they  insist  on  tearing  off  this  means  of 
freedom  to  become  crawling,  laborious  insedts? 
They  appear  to  hear  two  calls,  one  from  above 
and  the  other  of  the  earth,  earthy,  and  to  obey 
the  latter.  But  it  is  with  them  the  race  and  the 
future — always  the  future. 

To  an  ant  a  tree  is  a  forest  in  itself.  Ascending 
its  mammoth  trunk  to  the  upper  regions,  she 
follows  the  great  highways  of  the  branches,  out 
into  the  unknown  and  trackless  wilderness  of  leaves 
in  pursuit  of  her  game  —  the  aphid.  She  knows 
well  in  what  wild  and  solitary  uplands  to  look  for 
this  mountain-goat. 


100 


|               1  1  THE  WAYS  OF  THE  ANT 

The  under  side  of  maple  leaves  affords  good 
pasturage  to  numerous  green  aphids  which  there 
browse  contentedly  in  the  pleasant  shade  and  under 
the  watchful  eyes  of  the  small  brown  ants  that 
herd  them.  The  aphids  are  all  sizes  and  ages, 
though  as  to  age  the  difference  is  probably  but  a 
few  days.  With  a  glass,  the  process  of  "milking" 
may  be  observed,  the  ants  merely  stroking  the 
aphids  with  their  antenna.  Two  small  tubes,  like 
sap  quills,  protrude  from  the  back  of  the  aphid, 
and  from  time  to  time  minute  glistening  drops 
are  seen  to  exude  from  these  tubes  and  are  removed 
by  the  ants  in  attendance.  Surely,  to  the  ant  here 
is  the  land  of  milk  and  honey.  They  move  con- 
stantly to  and  fro  among  the  aphids,  now  and 
then  stopping  to  stroke  one.  Apparently  they 
detedl  by  some  signs  which  are  ready  to  yield  the 
sweet  fluid.  Their  presence  appears  to  be  agreeable 
to  the  aphids  and  is  never  in  the  least  resented. 
After  long  watching  with  the  glass,  I  have  never 
seen  anything  akin  to  insubordination.  Pluck  the 
leaf  ever  so  gently  and  hold  it  in  a  proper  posi- 
tion, the  difference  is  at  once  apparent  to  the 
aphids,  for  there  begins  an  exodus,  and  large  and 
small  troop  uo  the  stem  of  the  leaf  and  so  on  to 

101 


"I  I  IN  THE  OPEN  [  [ 


whatsoever  it  may  be  attached;  nor  does  it  cease 
until  they  have  deserted  to  the  last  one. 

But  the  life  of  ants  is  by  no  means  given  over 
to  these  bucolic  pursuits.  While  the  meadow- 
ants  seem  to  be  in  the  pastoral  stage,  the  red 
species  and  the  large  black  ones  are  hunters  and 
warriors.  The  most  sanguinary  conflict  I  have 
witnessed  was  a  battle  of  the  ants.  Two  armies  of 
the  same  black  species  met  on  the  floor  of  a 
neighbor's  barn.  The  battle  lasted  throughout 
several  days,  and  both  sides  fought  with  indescrib- 
able ferocity.  Where  they  cam«  from  was  a 
mystery,  as  no  such  colonies  of  ants  had  ever  been 
seen  thereabouts. 

They  appeared  to  be  of  the  species  Formica 
pennsyfoanica  which  nests  in  trees,  but  these  do 
not  occur  in  very  large  colonies,  whereas  the  con- 
tending hosts  upon  the  barn  floor  were  as  the 
Tartar  hordes.  The  floor  was  strewn  with  strug- 
gling pairs  and  with  the  dead  and  injured,  and 
always  fresh  forces  were  arriving. 

The  persistence  with  which  they  fought  is  only 
to  be  compared  to  that  of  bulldogs,  while  they 
showed  the  ferocity  of  weasels.  Once  let  an  ant 
get  another  by  the  thorax  and  she  would  continue 

IO2 


]  [  THE  WAYS  OF  THE  ANT 


crunching  and  sawing  until  she  had  severed  the 
head,  notwithstanding  in  the  meantime  one  or 
several  of  her  own  legs  had  been  cut  off  by  her 
antagonist.  This  was  the  usual  outcome  of  the 
various  individual  combats. 

From  time  to  time  I  placed  pairs  of  combatants 
on  the  slide  of  a  dissecfting  lens,  and  through  the 
glass  observed  them  as  in  an  arena.  It  was  a  min- 
iature combat  of  gladiators,  but  with  no  appeal 
for  mercy  on  the  part  of  the  vanquished.  Much 
evidently  depended  on  the  best  hold,  as  in  wrest- 
ling, for  there  was  no  dislodging  an  ant  once  she 
had  secured  it.  Under  the  lens  the  comparatively 
great  strength  and  the  skill  and  relentless  ferocity 
of  these  miniature  warriors  became  more  evident 
and  was  astonishing  to  witness. 

A  bird's-eye  view  of  the  battle-field  revealed  no 
plan  of  adlion  nor  any  directing  genius.  It  was 
every  one  for  himself — or  rather  herself — but 
there  was  absolute  unity  of  purpose.  Occasionally 
some  could  be  seen  running  about  with  the  heads 
of  the  vanquished  suspended  on  their  antennae, 
whereon  the  jaws  had  closed  in  the  death-struggle, 
not  again  to  be  relaxed.  These  ants  appeared  to 
seek  no  relief  from  such  a  monstrous  encumbrance, 

103 


]  I  IN  THE  OPEN  I  [ 


nor  seemingly  was  any  offered  by  their  comrades. 
Others  were  crawling  on  an  uneven  number  of 
legs  in  search  of  new  foes.  The  cause  of  such  a 
conflict  among  ants  of  the  same  species  remains  a 
mystery  —  one  of  the  many  mysteries. 

Every  year  the  red  ants  raid  the  common  blacks 
for  the  purpose  of  making  slaves  —  a  most  high- 
handed proceeding.  This  season  I  came  upon  the 
invading  host  marching  up  the  road  about  ten  in 
the  morning  of  July  2 8th.  The  invasion  had  but 
lately  begun,  as  the  ants  were  carrying  no  pupa?; 
it  was  the  skirmish  line.  As  the  column  advanced, 
frequent  and  rapid  communication  took  place  be- 
tween individuals  and  stragglers  who  were  coming 
back.  Later,  when  the  raid  was  well  under  way, 
there  was  little  of  this.  The  nest  of  the  red  ants 
was  by  the  side  of  a  path  in  the  woods  which  led 
out  to  the  wagon  road,  while  the  negroes  were 
domiciled  some  distance  up  this  lane.  Now  the 
column  of  red  ants  followed  the  path  and  the 
road  the  entire  way,  in  place  of  going  diredtly 
through  the  bushes,  though  it  doubled  the  distance, 
which  thus  amounted  to  some  fifty  yards. 

Red  ants  were  soon  pouring  out  of  the  various 
openings  in  the  nest  of  the  blacks,  carrying  both 

104 


||  THE 

WAYS 

OF 

THE 

ANT 

i 

pupas  and  larva?,  and  rarely  one  passed  with  a 
bunch  of  small  white  eggs.  Several  black  queens 
came  out  of  the  nest,  and  as  they  emerged  were 
set  upon  by  red  ants,  which  tried  to  hold  them  by 
their  wings.  They  managed,  however,  to  throw 
off  their  assailants,  and  ran  under  my  feet,  where 
they  were  followed  by  a  score  of  black  workers, 
all  of  whom  crowded  under  the  soles  of  my  shoes 
as  I  stood  on  the  loose  gravel.  At  noon  I  timed 
the  ants  and  found  that,  on  the  average,  forty 
pupae  and  larvas  were  carried  past  a  given  point 
every  minute.  Two  unbroken  columns  now  ex- 
tended the  entire  distance  between  the  nests,  one 
advancing  and  the  other  returning. 

Occasionally  one  passed  carrying  a  portion  of  a 
black  ant,  a  head  and  thorax,  or  an  abdomen. 
Again,  one  would  appear  witfi  a  live  black,  which, 
when  liberated  by  me,  frantically  made  her  escape. 
Very  young  negroes  when  carried  off  were  never 
injured.  On  one  occasion  several  red  ants  were 
struggling  with  a  black,  and  among  them  was  a 
black  who  fought  against  her  own  friend.  This 
is  the  only  case  in  which  I  saw  a  black  ant  help 
the  enemy  in  this  way  —  a  traitor,  evidently,  but 
presumably  one  whose  pupa  had  been  captured 

105 


IN  THE  OPEN  [  [ 


the  year  before  and  reared  in  slavery.  Whereas 
the  red  ants  always  came  to  each  other's  assistance, 
the  blacks  rarely  did  so. 

By  five  o'clock  the  raid  was  practically  over  for 
the  day.  It  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun. 
Early  in  the  struggle  a  slender,  straggling  column 
had  diverged  from  the  main  line,  about  half  way 
between  the  nests.  I  now  found  the  entire  body 
of  ants  moving  in  this  new  diredtion.  The  one 
raid  over,  they  had  undertaken  another  upon  a 
colony  of  blacks  some  twenty-five  yards  distant, 
and  were  transporting  the  pupae  and  larvas  at  about 
the  same  rate  as  before.  To  reach  this  nest,  the 
column  must  cross  the  wagon  road,  and  here  a 
number  were  crushed  from  time  to  time  by  passing 
vehicles.  But  the  marching  army  passed  by  with 
the  stolen  pupae  and  paid  no  heed  to  their 
wounded  comrades.  This  second  foray  ceased  before 
nightfall. 

The  following  morning  by  ten  o'clock  the  raid 
had  been  renewed  and  a  great  stream  of  ants  were 
bearing  away  pupae  as  before.  Whenever  the 
column  moved  over  dry  leaves  its  progress  was 
distinctly  audible,  a  rustling  sound  suggesting  the 
curiously  dry  crik  crik  of  a  serpent.  The  footfall 

1 06 


THE  WAYS  OF  THE  ANT 


of  the  ants  was  as  incessant  as  the  patter  of  rain ; 
a  barefooted  insedt  host,  a  rabble  of  sans  culottes^ 
and  the  sound  of  their  marching  feet  reached  my 
listening  ears,  as  it  were  in  the  clouds  above  them. 

On  the  fourth  day  the  slavers  began  kidnapping 
the  blacks  themselves  and  carrying  them  unharmed 
to  the  nest.  Quite  often  I  found  them  carrying 
individuals  of  their  own  species.  These  may  have 
been  deserters  or  they  may  have  been  ants  from 
some  other  community,  who,  learning  of  the  raid, 
thought  to  be  present  at  the  final  sack  and  perhaps 
share  in  the  spoils.  A  still  more  puzzling  thing 
was  the  fad:  that  some  few  red  ants  bore  negroes 
in  the  wrong  direction, —  that  is,  from  the  red 
back  to  the  black  colony.  I  have  noticed  on 
former  occasions  that  the  raid  may  become  thus 
complicated  toward  its  close  as  if  the  ants,  drunk 
with  vidlory,  were  beside  themselves. 

On  the  yth  of  August  the  raid  was  dire&ed 
against  a  new  negro  colony  some  distance  further 
down  the  road.  It  was  carried  on  with  something 
like  the  usual  vigor  until  the  25th  of  the  month, 
when  it  apparently  ceased.  The  first  nests  of 
blacks,  in  which  some  few  ants  remained,  were 
no  longer  molested,  though  the  besieging  army 

107 


IN  THE  OPEN 


passed  them  on  its  way  to  the  field  of  operation. 
Thus  the  series  of  raids  of  this  one  colony  of  red 
ants  continued  for  nearly  a  month. 

I  found  no  less  than  three  other  raids  in  progress 
at  this  time,  among  widely  separated  communities, 
so  that  the  marauding  spirit  was  contagious  among 
them  and  spread  like  the  war  fever.  The  red 
warriors  were  everywhere  in  arms  and  bent  on 
pillage.  One  hill,  being  free  from  grass,  offered  a 
clear  view  of  what  was  going  on  at  the  doorway 
at  least.  Here  the  black  workers  —  the  slaves  of 
a  former  raid  —  were  carrying  out  bits  of  gravel, 
while  the  train  of  red  ants  entered,  bearing  the 
stolen  pupae  from  the  pillaged  nest.  The  red  ants 
were  at  this  time  bringing  some  large  queen  pupae 
which  they  had  great  difficulty  in  getting  over  the 
ground.  As  they  approached  the  entrance,  the 
black  workers  deposited  their  bits  of  gravel  and 
ran  to  their  assistance.  Several  blacks  which  re- 
mained near  the  entrance  seemed  to  aft  thus  as 
porters,  while  others  about  the  top  of  the  hill  were 
engaged  as  laborers. 

Stopping  work  at  about  five  o'clock,  the  train 
of  red  ants  melted  away  before  one's  eyes.  They 
dropped  their  task  very  much  as  a  gang  of  men 

108 


]  I  THE  WAYS  OF  THE  ANT  |  [ 


do  when  the  whistle  blows.  Their  day  at  that 
sort  of  labor  was  therefore  only  about  seven  or 
eight  hours,  as  if  some  of  the  principles  of  Labor 
Union  were  in  vogue  among  these  brigands.  They 
would  kidnap  only  so  many  hours  a  day.  The 
slaves,  however,  kept  at  work  until  dusk.  Perhaps 
the  red  ants  continued  inside  the  nest,  disposing 
of  the  pupas  captured  during  the  day,  but  they 
brought  in  none  after  five  o'clock. 

Three  days  had  elapsed  from  the  close  of  this 
raid  when,  for  some  reason,  the  entire  colony  of 
red  ants  deserted  the  hill,  carrying  the  newly  cap- 
tured slaves  and  their  pupae  with  them.  They  took 
up  their  abode  under  a  cement  walk,  an  unusual 
place  for  red  ants,  and  a  week  of  incessant  labor 
was  consumed  in  carrying  the  black  ants  and  pupa? 
to  the  new  site.  This  was,  then,  a  bona  fide  exodus 
of  an  entire  community. 

Under  the  cement  walk  to  which  the  colony 
of  red  ants  had  migrated  with  their  slaves  were  nu- 
merous nests  of  small  brown  ants.  These  swarmed 
one  sultry  afternoon,  and  as  they  came  pouring 
out  of  the  cracks  in  the  walk  and  clustered  on  the 
surface,  the  fierce  red  ants  fell  upon  them  with 
fury,  slaying  hundreds  and  leaving  most  of  the 

109 


IN  THE  OPEN 


bodies  on  the  walk,  though  many  were  carried 
away.  This  I  took  to  be  a  veritable  hunting  ex- 
pedition. Like  some  other  "sportsmen,"  they  ap- 
peared to  kill  more  than  they  wanted,  and  the 
little  heaps  of  winged  dead  were  left  to  be  scat- 
tered by  a  gust  of  wind. 

On  the  following  day  a  new  chapter  opened  in 
the  history  of  this  remarkable  colony,  for  I  found 
them  attacking  a  large  negro  colony  some  distance 
away.  Contrary  to  custom,  the  blacks  defended 
their  nests  with  spirit,  and  at  first  seemed  to  hold 
their  own.  Not  divining  what  was  to  follow,  I 
was  surprised  to  find  the  red  ants  carrying  away 
no  pupae.  But  the  next  day  it  was  made  plain 
enough,  for  the  red  ants  appeared  in  a  compadt 
column  bearing  pupse  and  slaves,  which  but  a 
week  before  they  had  deposited  under  the  walk, 
and  which  they  were  now  moving  for  the  third 
time.  Was  this  a  second  exodus  or  had  the  move 
to  the  walk  been  merely  an  expedient  until  they 
should  find  a  more  suitable  place  ?  Without  further 
ado  they  invaded  the  nest,  and  four  distinft  colonies 
(the  red  ants  held  slaves  of  a  previous  year),  one 
red  and  three  black,  with  all  larva?  and  pupa?  and 
some  eggs,  were  thus  housed  together.  One  may 

no 


1  1  THE  WAYS  OF  THE  ANT 

imagine  the  feelings  of  the  unfortunate  community 
on  finding  not  only  an  invading  army  of  free- 
booters, but  that  some  thousands  of  their  own 
cousins,  children  and  all,  were  come  bag  and  bag- 
gage to  live  with  them. 

Now  the  marching  column  passed  close  by  the 
nests  of  the  little  brown  ants  which  had  been 
their  hunting-ground  of  the  few  past  days.  They 
were  too  engrossed  in  carrying  pupa?  to  follow 
the  chase,  but  I  found  three  of  their  slaves  posted 
by  some  small  holes  in  the  cement  through  which 
the  brown  ants  left  their  nests.  These  negroes 
remained  near  the  opening,  and,  as  the  brown  ants 
appeared,  would  reach  over  the  edge  and  pull  one 
forth  which  was  soon  crushed  and  tossed  aside. 
During  the  several  hours  that  I  watched  them  the 
three  slaves  remained  so  engaged.  From  time  to 
time  they  would  run  about  among  the  wounded, 
and  picking  up  one  here  or  there,  apparently  give 
it  a  nip. 

This  final  move  occupied  some  eight  days,  and 
nothing  further  transpired  in  the  history  of  this 
colony, —  that  is,  above  ground.  The  war  fever 
subsided  as  suddenly  as  it  had  arisen,  and  the 
erstwhile  warriors  were  perhaps  become  peaceful 

in 


]  [  IN  THE  OPEN  I  [ 


educators  of  the  slaves  now  being  born  into  cap- 
tivity with  only  some  vague  instinft  of  freedom, 
some  race  memory  handed  down  from  the  halcyon 
days  before  the  advent  of  the  red  Tartar. 

If  the  sluggard  is  to  go  to  the  ant,  then  let  it 
not  be  to  the  red  ant,  nor  again  to  the  slave,  but 
to  some  Syrian  species  known  to  Solomon,  which 
stored  up  provender  for  the  winter,  or  to  the  little 
brown  ant  which  herds  the  aphid.  Huber  relates 
that  he  found  the  slave-making  ant  of  Europe 
( P.  rufescens )  unable  to  feed  itself,  so  that,  if 
isolated,  it  would  miserably  starve  in  the  midst  of 
plenty.  Not  to  such  an  ant,  then,  should  the 
sluggard  go,  but  to  that  wise  yellow  species  which, 
declares  Lubbock,  actually  brought  in  and  cared  for 
the  eggs  of  an  aphid  through  the  winter,  and  car- 
ried out  the  young  aphids  in  the  spring  to  their 
proper  food  plant.  Certainly  should  we  ever  attain 
to  the  dignity  of  wings,  there  will  be  no  occasion 
to  emulate  the  ant,  which,  being  born  into  that 
freedom,  tears  them  from  its  body,  the  rest  of  its 
days  to  crawl  upon  the  earth. 


112 


AUTUMN  STUDIES 


Early  in  August  we  are  surprised  each  year  by 
the  glowing  leaves  on  the  tupelo,  a  little  patch  of 
scarlet  gleaming  in  the  swamp,  while  the  high 
blueberry  is  still  in  fruit  and  the  silver-rod  is 
making  its  appearance.  By  the  time  the  wood- 
lilies  have  faded  in  the  huckleberry  pasture,  the 
red  bunchberries  add  their  bit  of  color  to  the 
carpet  on  the  edge  of  the  swamp.  The  large 
berries  of  the  clintonia  turn  that  rare  shade  of  blue 
which  they  retain  but  a  short  time,  growing  darker 
as  they  ripen.  This  delicate  bloom  appears  later 
on  the  berries  of  the  smilax,  the  frost-grapes,  the 
savin  and  the  viburnums ;  but  in  the  clintonia  there 
is  an  admixture  of  some  tint  lacking  in  these, 
which  gives  a  finer  blue,  as  though  there  were 
reflected  here  some  remoter  depths  of  the  heavens, 
a  bit  of  ethereal  and  celestial  color  imprisoned  for 
a  moment.  Mountain-holly  is  now  in  its  prime, 
its  berries  of  a  deep  cherry,  perhaps  one  of  the 
richest  reds  to  be  found  in  nature,  as  those  of  the 


||  IN 

THE  OPEN 

clintonia  present  one  of  the  rarest  blues,  equaled 
only  by  gentians  and  bluebirds.  Both  berries,  of 
course,  wear  their  true  colors  only  in  their  prime 
and  lose  them  on  becoming  overripe.  In  the 
swamps  the  little  yellow  and  brown  cyperus  is  in 
flower  and  the  leaves  of  the  small,  pale  St.-JohnV 
wort  have  reddened  to  a  brilliant  hue,  while  young 
bullfrogs  and  pickerel-frogs  sun  themselves  on  the 
lily-pads  and  dream  away  the  mellow  hours. 

While  the  dog-days  are  disappointing  in  resped: 
to  bird  life,  there  are  compensations.  The  charm 
of  this  season  lies  in  the  mushrooms.  Though  these 
last  through  October,  they  are  more  in  evidence 
in  August,  and  take  on  prominence  then  because 
of  a  diminishing  flora  and  the  withdrawal  from 
view  of  a  large  number  of  birds.  It  is  a  second 
spring  —  hot,  moist  and  fungus  —  a  blooming  of 
the  mushroom  world.  Old  stumps  and  dead 
branches  blossom  gaily,  and  bring  forth  a  tropic 
flora.  Decay  is  seen  to  be  the  matrix  of  beauty. 
The  logs  of  corduroy  roads  through  the  swamp 
are  incrusted  with  a  shelf  fungus  (  P.  versicolor )  of 
marvelous  hues.  These,  spread  like  open  fans,  are 
fastened  to  the  wood  by  the  pileus  itself,  as  by  the 
handle.  Some  are  banded  in  seal-brown  and  amber, 
114 


AUTUMN  STUDIES 

the  surface  having  the  lustrous,  changeful  effefts  of 
a  cat's  eye.  Others  are  striped  in  violet  and  deep 
green;  still  others  in  green  and  mauve,  and  some 
in  ochre  and  tawny  hues,  while  over  all  there  is  a 
play  of  light  as  on  watered  silk. 

It  requires  somewhat  of  the  heroic  spirit  to  dis- 
cover whether  a  mushroom  is  edible  or  not.  But 
we  may  feast  our  eyes  on  the  amanita,  and  all  other 
mushrooms,  with  no  fear  of  consequences.  The 
mycologist  seems  to  overlook  the  finer  and  esthetic 
value  of  mushrooms.  They  are  beautiful  to  look 
upon  —  surely  this  is  one  important  qualification. 
What  more  attractive  these  misty  days  than  the 
deadly  amanita  —  the  " destroying  angel"?  How 
it  gleams  in  the  woods !  How  it  lures  with  its 
terrible  beauty !  But  they  who  are  tempted  to 
taste  must  be  wholly  given  over  to  the  pleasures 
of  the  table.  It  was  not  made  for  the  stomach, 
but  to  be  digested  and  assimilated  by  mental 
processes  alone  and  the  perception  of  beauty  there- 
by nourished  and  sustained. 

How  clean  and  wholesome  is  the  pasture  mush- 
room—  the  mushroom  —  with  its  white  flesh,  pink 
gills,  and  cap  from  which  the  skin  peels  as  readily 
as  from  a  fig.  The  same  field  is  often  sprinkled 

"5 


IN  THE  OPEN 

over  with  puffballs  looking  as  fresh  as  new-laid 
eggs,  as  they  poke  out  of  the  close-cropped  turf. 
Some  species  are  thus  eminently  wholesome  and 
inviting,  while  others  have  a  loathsome  fungoid 
personality  and  affedl  one  like  the  sight  of  reptiles. 
They  express  the  fad:  that  they  are  of  the  lower 
orders  —  the  slimy  world.  Mushrooms  are  indeed 
almost  as  varied  in  outline  and  color  as  flowers. 
Red  species  of  russula  vie  with  the  rose,  with  ripe 
cherries,  or  the  cheeks  of  Bartlett  pears,  while  the 
green  russula  is  of  richer,  more  velvety  hue  than 
any  unripe  fruit.  The  grotesque  forms  of  boleti 
have  a  kind  of  fascination.  One  comes  to  distin- 
guish minute  differences  and  to  cherish  these  odd 
and  sometimes  graceful  shapes,  as  a  connoisseur 
might  his  bronzes  or  antique  vases. 

Many  of  the  mosses  are  fruiting  at  this  season, 
but  they,  for  the  most  part,  belong  to  that  mysteri- 
ous and  unfathomable  world  of  the  compound 
microscope.  Yet  here  are  some,  be  it  said  with 
joy,  that  so  proclaim  themselves  as  to  be  known 
of  all  men.  Such  we  can  take  home  to  us  as 
friends  of  our  leisure  and  landmarks  in  our  excur- 
sions. These  at  least  we  have  reclaimed  from 
science.  In  the  shadowy  sea  of  Latin  names  these 

116 


AUTUMN  STUDIES) 

few  green  isles  appear  —  peat-moss,  broom-moss, 
hair-cap  and  fern-moss.  Like  miniature  smilax 
are  the  mniums,  marvelous  little  trailing  beauties, 
while  of  all  vegetable  elves  the  silvery  bryum  has 
the  greatest  witchery,  with  young  drooping  pea- 
green  capsules  like  so  many  fairy  pipes.  A  minia- 
ture jungle  is  the  fern-moss,  a  forest  of  tree  ferns 
at  our  very  doors  —  Ceylon  and  Java  in  our  wood 
lot.  It  is  only  a  difference  of  dimension.  A  patch 
of  this  is  as  rich  and  luxuriant  as  any  jungle  of 
bamboos  on  the  lower  slope  of  the  Himalaya,  and 
a  spider  might  as  easily  lose  himself  in  one  as  a 
man  in  the  other. 

With  what  a  fine  garment  of  green  does  Nature 
clothe  the  trunks  of  swamp-maples  and  some 
black  birches.  It  is  a  true  woodland  costume  be- 
fitting their  sylvan  life;  a  snug  garment  tightly 
wrapped  about  the  trunk  as  though  to  protect  the 
vital  parts  of  the  body  while  the  extremities  are 
bared  to  the  winds.  Woven  in  woodland  looms 
of  mosses  and  lichens,  it  forever  replenishes  itself, 
the  holes  mended  and  the  bare  spots  renewed  as 
by  deft  and  invisible  weavers. 

Where  do  the  birds  go  in  August?  Never  an 
oriole's  note  nor  a  bluebird's  warble.  All  the 

117 


]  [  IN  THE  OPEN 


more  we  appreciate  the  faithful  redeye  and  the 
wood-pewee.  The  importunate  twittering  of  young 
birds  with  their  speckled  breasts  and  half-grown 
tails  is  in  evidence;  they  at  least  do  not  hesitate 
to  make  themselves  known.  But  in  September  are 
bright  days  when  there  come  waves  of  birds.  The 
returning  warblers  rove  in  little  bands,  and  com- 
panies of  young  field-  and  chipping-sparrows  flit 
in  and  out  among  the  bayberries  and  alight  in  the 
path. 

In  their  dull,  autumn  colors  the  warblers  have 
an  unfamiliar  look.  They  come  disguised  in  winter 
cloaks  which,  if  you  do  not  know  their  little 
mannerisms,  may  be  effective  enough.  With  pro- 
voking celerity  they  flit  in  and  out  the  thick 
foliage,  and  you  dance  attendance;  now  this  way 
and  now  that,  stumbling  over  pasture  stones  or 
plunging  into  the  midst  of  blackberry  and  rose 
thickets,  to  be  detained  at  last  by  the  persuasive 
catbrier.  Again  you  go  forth  to  find  the  game 
has  stolen  away  and  not  a  warbler  is  to  be  seen. 
Such  are  the  exigencies  of  bird  study  in  September ; 
yet  in  a  few  days  other  flocks  may  arrive.  Every 
faintest  clue  is  valuable  to  the  ornithologist  who 
honestly  refrains  from  the  gun.  Were  it  not  for 

ill 


]  I  AUTUMN  STUDIES]  [ 


the  peculiar  jerking  of  the  tail,  one  would  hardly 
recognize  the  yellowpoll  in  his  dull  suit.  The  fly- 
catchers frequently  declare  their  identity  through 
mannerisms.  Were  it  not  for  difference  of  manner 
and  voice,  the  phcebe  and  the  pewee  might  easily 
be  confused ;  so  also  the  redeye  and  the  warbling 
vireo.  I  have  known  the  redeye  for  years,  but  can 
never  make  out  his  red  eye,  unless  it  be  a  glass 
one. 

Now  comes  the  winter  wren,  peeping  and  prying 
round  about  a  mossy  tussock  like  a  little  mouse, 
but  far  more  self-contained.  His  wee  tail  is  ele- 
vated and  his  whole  demeanor  pert.  What  a 
pidture  he  makes,  prying  about  in  the  hair-caps, 
his  head  little  higher  than  the  capsules, —  a  ruddy, 
rich-hued,  speckled  little  fellow.  If  only  he  would 
give  us  a  measure  of  that  fabled  song,  that  Orphean 
strain  of  the  far  North  and  of  the  mountain  tops, 
which  is  denied  to  dwellers  on  these  lower  levels! 
There  are  songs  to  be  heard  only  on  Parnassus. 

These  are  the  days  of  journeying  seeds.  In 
spring  it  was  blowing  pollen;  in  early  autumn, 
mushroom  spores;  and  now  winged  seeds  flying 
before  the  wind.  Those  of  the  hop-hornbeam 
are  done  up  in  little  papery  bags  which,  though 

1 19 


IN  THE  OPEN 

| 

incapable  of  an  extended  flight,  manage  to  sail  out 
and  away  from  the  parent  tree.  Even  the  small 
seeds  of  birch  and  alder,  compaft  as  they  are,  have 
wings  provided, —  for  no  ambitious  flight,  to  be 
sure,  but  a  gentle  excursion  only,  such  as  the 
broad-winged  maple  seed  may  take  when  its  hour 
arrives.  Acorns  will  fall  dire&ly  below  the  tree, 
perhaps  roll  some  little  distance  on  uneven  ground 
and  lie  in  rich  confusion  —  a  symbol  of  plenty. 
For  any  further  transportation  they  must  depend 
upon  the  wings  of  the  jay  and  the  feet  of  the 
squirrel.  In  this  respedt  the  sweet  acorns  of  the 
white  oak  have  the  better  chance,  while  at  the 
same  time  they  run  the  greater  risk  of  being  eaten. 
Jays  constantly  carry  acorns,  and  may  frequently 
drop  them.  Gray  squirrels  bury  them,  and  recover 
a  surprising  number  later  when  the  snow  is  on 
the  ground.  They  know  wherein  the  white  are 
superior  and  are  as  well  informed  about  acorns  as 
are  we  about  apples  or  the  varieties  of  squash. 
The  white  oak  acorn  is  to  them  Hubbard  squash 
or  Baldwin  apple. 

When  Nature  planned  that  the  nut  trees  should 
bear  as  they  do,  she  doubtless  considered  the 
squirrel  and  the  boy  that  was  to  be.  She  had 

120 


AUTUMN  STUDIES 

| 

no  idea  of  deriving  a  thousand  seedlings  from  a 
hickory,  but  perhaps  one  only,  and  allowing  for 
those  that  should  come  to  naught,  the  boys  and 
the  squirrels  might  have  the  rest  —  to  say  nothing 
of  weevils,  which  get  ahead  of  both  when  it  comes 
to  chestnuts,  being  on  hand  to  lay  their  eggs  in 
the  flower.  When  the  boy  arrives,  it  is  to  find 
them  already  in  possession  —  surely  nine-tenths  of 
the  law  in  this  case.  The  chestnut-bur  was  seem- 
ingly designed  as  a  means  of  protection  rather 
than  of  transportation, —  unless  it  be  that  in  remote 
times  the  tertiary  monkey  got  them  in  his  coat, 
or  perhaps  slyly  pelted  the  mastodon  with  these 
monster  burs,  and  they  were  thus  conveyed,  as 
now  a  dog  will  carry  beggar-ticks.  As  a  protection 
it  does  not  serve  against  its  most  insidious  foe,  the 
larva  of  the  weevil,  which  works  not  from  with- 
out but  from  within.  Nature  has  treated  the  but- 
ternut better  by  surrounding  it  with  a  husk,  as 
food  for  the  grubs,  which  are  content  to  go  no 
deeper.  One  is  a  case  of  armed  resistance,  the 
other  of  diplomacy,  and  diplomacy  wins. 

How  evidently  all  Nature  is  flowing.  It  is  as 
though  we  stood  on  the  banks  of  a  river  and  saw 
pass  —  today  arbutus,  tomorrow,  columbines,  and 

121 


]  I  IN  THE  OPEN 


later,  goldenrod.  The  last  is  hardly  gone  before 
the  advance  guard  of  skunk-cabbage  appears  again. 
Autumn  nourishes  a  vigorous  brood  —  whole  acres 
of  wild  sunflowers,  acres  again  of  joepye-weed,  and 
salt  marshes  aglow  with  the  great  rose-mallow. 
Presently  there  will  be  only  asters  and  golden- 
rod —  everywhere  purple  and  gold;  royal  robes 
worn  not  for  long,  to  give  way  to  the  sober  dress 
of  early  winter  —  a  monk's  garb. 

Early  in  September  the  common  brakes  turn, 
imparting  a  faint  glow  to  the  woods.  Dicksonia 
has  a  brighter  hue,  and  patches  surrounding  a 
pasture  boulder  fairly  seem  to  emit  light.  But  this 
is  as  nothing  to  the  splendor  of  cinnamon-ferns  in 
the  open  bogs,  now  dry,  and  the  spagnum  withered 
and  sear.  It  is  as  if  the  smouldering  earth-fires 
leapt  at  the  touch  of  autumn  and  glowed  in  these 
stately  fronds.  In  the  woods  is  always  a  predomi- 
nance of  yellow  at  this  season;  so  lately  somber 
and  damp,  heavy  with  the  mustiness  and  humidity 
of  the  dog-days,  they  are  now  full  of  imprisoned 
sunshine.  As  by  a  touch  of  enchantment,  the  falling 
of  the  lower  leaves  on  all  shrubbery  and  in  brier 
thickets  has  suddenly  given  us  distances,  larger 
perspective  and  new  vistas,  where  before  we  were 

122 


]  I  AUTUMN  STUDIES 


hedged  in  between  dense  green  walls.  Aspen, 
shadbush,  blackberry,  birch  and  hickory  all  incline 
to  yellow,  mottled  and  speckled  more  or  less  with 
brown.  Ochre,  umber,  sienna,  gamboge  are  on 
Nature's  palette;  soon  she  will  replace  these  with 
crimson  and  scarlet.  Already  there  is  a  touch  of 
vermilion  in  the  brilliant  poison-ivy;  and  she  has 
spilled  drops  of  scarlet  everywhere  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  woods,  along  a  wall,  over  a  fence,  up 
in  a  pine,  in  the  very  midst  of  a  radiant  gleaming 
hickory  —  wherever  the  Virginia  creeper  grows. 
Nature  works  deftly,  at  first  with  delicate  brush 
touching  a  shadbush,  a  clump  of  osmunda,  or 
again  only  a  leaf,  a  spot  of  color,  a  patch  here 
and  a  streak  there;  but  the  day  of  transfiguration 
approaches.  Early  O6tober  sees  the  stag-horn 
sumacs  fairly  scintillate  with  color.  At  last  the 
whole  color-box  is  upset  and  runs  red  down  a 
hillside  huckleberry  patch,  meeting  a  yellow  streak 
in  a  ravine  and  spreading  out  over  the  swamps, 
a  sea  of  scarlet  and  gold.  Every  year  Nature  starts 
out  in  this  modest  fashion  and  ends  in  an  upset 
and  riot  of  color.  We  should  know  her  ways  by 
this  time,  but  though  her  plan  is  the  same  she  varies 
the  details  infinitely  and  there  are  always  surprises. 

123 


IN  THE  OPEN 


These  same  earth-fires  which  blazed  in  the 
osmunda  now  glow  deep  red  in  the  dwarf  sumacs  — 
a  dull,  fierce  flame,  as  if  for  the  nonce  Pluto's 
fires  shone  through  the  thin  shell  of  earth.  The 
poison-ivy  is  in  its  glory,  and  no  tupelo,  no  sugar- 
maple,  can  rival  its  scarlet  and  vermilion.  Earth 
indeed  wears  a  jewel  now.  But  there  is  nowhere 
a  warmer,  mellower  tint  than  the  shadbush  has 
caught  and  held, —  not  brilliant  nor  showy,  not  a 
shining  mark  in  the  woods,  but  a  cheery  sight 
that  warms  the  cockles  of  your  heart.  Little 
clumps  of  the  maple-leaved  viburnum  are  now  of 
a  delicate  smoky  pink,  while  the  ash  turns  an 
indescribable  hue  —  a  greenish  maroon  or  purplish 
green  if  such  there  be. 

Already  the  hickory  leaves  are  falling,  detaching 
themselves  one  by  one  and  floating  leisurely  to 
earth.  It  will  now  be  our  gentle  pleasure  to  walk 
through  crisp  and  rustling  leaves.  Barberries  are 
ripe,  and  old-fashioned  folk  gather  them  for  jelly 
or  preserve  them  in  molasses,  wherein  they  are  as 
so  many  shoe-pegs  drowned  in  sweetness.  The 
solitary  sandpiper  comes  again  to  preside  briefly 
over  the  ponds  —  a  lone,  wild  spirit.  Little  flocks 
of  coots  scud  low  over  the  water,  and  in  the  dark, 

124 


AUTUMN  STUDIES 

spongy  humus  of  the  hemlock  swamp,  red  squirrels 
are  digging  caches  and  concealing  the  small  cones, 
a  dozen  or  more  in  a  place.  Such  are  the  signs 
of  the  times. 

Yet  another  sign  —  the  last  effort  of  the  dying 
year  —  is  the  witch-hazel,  which  sheds  its  leaves 
and  stands  arrayed  in  yellow  blossoms.  A  brave 
suggestion  is  this  flower  of  the  late  autumn,  blos- 
soming when  all  else  is  in  the  sear  and  yellow, 
that  it  may  bear  seed  in  another  year.  When  all 
others  have  given  up  and  are  retreating,  this  one 
comes  forth  as  much  as  to  say  it  is  never  too  late. 
There  is  a  very  witchery  in  the  crinkled  yellow 
flower  born  of  the  old  year  in  a  frosty  world;  a 
borean  child  brought  hither  on  the  wings  of  the 
North  wind;  a  sturdy  blossom  that  will  not  show 
itself  till  it  hears  the  music  of  rustling  leaves. 

Late  in  autumn  the  white  pines  shed  their 
needles  and  lay  down  a  new  carpet.  No  turning 
of  the  old  here,  but  every  year  another  —  fresh, 
wholesome,  fragrant ;  a  plain,  well-wearing  ground- 
work that  never  offends  the  eye  and  on  which  is 
traced  from  time  to  time  a  rare  and  original 
design.  It  is  now  a  scarlet  tupelo  or  a  maple  leaf 
dropped  here  and  there,  and  again  a  creeping 

125 


1 

IN  THE  OPEN 

mitchella  with  a  red  berry  or  two,  or  a  clump  of 
ground-pine  and  a  drift  of  beech  and  scarlet  oak 
leaves.  On  occasion  appears  a  solitary  gleaming 
amanita.  Over  the  rich  seal-brown  of  ancient 
hemlock  stumps  is  a  tracery  of  the  gray-green 
cladonia  with  its  scarlet  fruiting  cups.  What  are 
Tabriz,  Daghestan,  Bokhara  and  the  rest  to  this? 
These  odorous  pine-needles  are  the  magic  carpet 
which  gently  conveys  one  into  the  sylvan  world 
of  faun  and  nymph.  Now  it  is  a  sunbath  we  want 
rather  than  a  cold  dip, —  to  bask  in  the  warmth 
like  any  cottontail.  To  lie  in  some  sheltered  spot 
while  the  frost  is  taking  off  the  last  leaves,  and 
become  saturated  with  sunlight,  is  a  mellowing 
process,  and  ripens  one, —  as  tomatoes  are  ripened 
on  the  window-sill  or  grapes  on  the  trellis. 

As  the  vivid  hues  of  the  red  maple  fade  in  the 
swamp  and  are  replaced  by  the  soft  silvery  gray 
and  purplish  sheen  of  the  bark,  the  oaks  on 
the  hillside  become  ruddy.  The  coloring  is  rich 
and  subdued,  rather  than  brilliant  and  glowing  as 
at  first  —  mahogany  and  maroon  set  off  by  the 
purple  mists  of  Indian  summer.  And  now  at  last 
branches  are  bare  and  leaves  rustle  underfoot. 

126 


PASTURE  STONES 


In  New  England  pastures,  the  boulders  are  as 
much  in  harmony  with  their  environment  as  any 
tree  or  shrub.  They  have  the  appearance  of  having 
grown  here,  quite  as  naturally  as  the  bayberry 
and  the  sweet  fern,  and  are  kindred  of  the  savin, 
and  the  low-spreading  juniper  which  circles  round 
them  and  hugs  the  stone  like  the  lichen  itself. 
The  migrant  boulders  from  the  North  are  con- 
genial to  these  hardy  northern  plants  which  refleft 
the  somber  character  of  the  rock. 

A  field  that  has  been  entirely  cleared  of  its 
pasture  stones  and  left  to  stand  thus,  somehow 
looks  barren  and  deserted.  You  feel  you  would 
like  to  restore  a  boulder  here  and  there  and  invite 
the  juniper  and  the  bayberry  to  return.  There  is 
chara&er  in  these  ancient  pasture  stones,  and  they 
cannot  be  removed  without  depriving  the  land- 
scape of  that  which  they  imparted ;  it  is  no  longer 
virile  and  forceful,  but  tame  and  meek  as  though 
shorn  of  its  strength. 

127 


IN  THE  OPEN 

If  you  would  build  your  house  on  truly  historic 
ground,  lay  it  on  foundation  of  pasture  stones,  and 
incorporate,  as  it  were,  Time  itself  into  the  struc- 
ture. This  is  to  let  the  very  elements  work  for 
you.  On  many  a  farm  the  boulders  are  as  good  a 
crop  as  any;  when  they  are  gathered  into  the 
walls  to  give  room  for  one  more  lucrative,  this 
value  at  least  of  the  farm  is  still  represented.  The 
fields  have  produced  but  one  crop  of  boulders,  and 
only  the  ages  could  mature  this.  If  the  pastures 
must  lose  this  ancient  beauty,  let  the  house  gain 
by  it.  Build  it  into  your  chimney.  Take  it  to 
your  hearth  that  it  may  not  be  lost.  Let  the 
boulder  tell  its  story  by  the  light  of  the  hickory 
logs. 

There  is  a  rustic  notion  that  boulders  somehow 
grow,  in  some  inexplicable  manner  enlarging  like 
puffballs  and  drawing  sustenance  from  the  earth  — 
and  what  could  be  more  puzzling  to  the  unin- 
itiated than  the  presence  of  these  pasture  stones? 
His  was  an  ingenious  mind  who  conjured  up  that 
remote  ice  age  from  this  fragmentary  evidence 
and  derived  a  history  from  these  scattered  letters 
and  elliptical  sentences.  It  was  like  tracing  the 
stars  to  their  origin. 

128 


PASTURE  STONES 

It  takes  a  bold  imagination,  indeed,  to  see  these 
familiar  fields  and  woods  overlaid  with  a  mile's 
thickness  of  ice ;  to  recognize  here  in  this  present 
landscape  a  very  Greenland,  redeemed  and  made 
hospitable.  There  was  need  of  a  solid  foundation 
of  fad:,  patiently  garnered,  before  such  an  arch  of 
fancy  could  be  sprung.  What  chaos  and  desolation 
once  reigned  here,  only  these  boulders  can  tell. 
Here  was  a  frozen  waste  as  barren  as  the  face  of 
the  moon.  But  beneath  lay  the  soil  that  was  to 
nurture  the  violet  and  the  hepatica.  There  was  a 
fine  satisfaction  in  riding  a  miracle  like  this  to 
earth,  to  corner  it  and  see  it  resolve  itself  into  the 
working  of  natural  laws. 

Nature  appears  as  intent  on  breaking  up  the 
old  rocks  as  in  forming  new  ones.  The  ledge  is, 
after  all,  but  a  mass  of  masonry  in  which  huge 
blocks  are  set  without  mortar  and  as  closely  and 
evenly  as  jewels.  What  a  lathe  was  that  ancient 
glacier  in  which  to  turn  and  smooth  these  rough 
gems;  or  rather  a  great  file  which  rasped  their 
edges  and  corners.  In  rectangular  blocks  that  have 
weathered,  the  decay  is  deeper  at  the  corners,  so 
that  a  cubical  block  tends  to  become  a  sphere 
as  it  diminishes.  Frost  is  the  stone-cutter,  who 

129 


1 

|  IN  THE  OPEN 

scatters  his  chips  over  the  world;  Rain,  the  giant 
who  is  bent  on  turning  these  into  soil.  Consider 
what  power  lay  in  this  tongue  of  ice  which  licked 
up  the  crumbs  of  the  earth ;  carried  Canada  into 
New  England  and  New  England  into  New  York, 
depositing  its  burden  as  gently  as  the  petal  falls 
from  a  rose. 

Boulders  are  to  be  considered  veterans  of  glacial 
times,  which  carry  still  the  scars  of  that  strenuous 
day.  What  tales  they  have  to  tell  of  that  mam- 
moth conflict,  that  prehistoric  incursion  of  the 
Ardtic  hosts,  but  only  to  very  good  listeners  are 
they  unfolded.  You  must  needs  have  a  sympathetic 
ear  to  become  their  confidant.  The  unconscious 
rock  assumes  dignity  in  view  of  its  past,  as  though 
here  were  an  imprisoned  earth-spirit,  proceeding 
thus  through  the  strenuous  life  to  some  ultimate 
freedom.  Sermons  in  stones  indeed!  A  terminal 
moraine  is  the  most  ancient  battle-ground  of  the 
world.  Here  are  the  very  heroes  themselves, 
stretched  upon  the  field  in  imperturbable  granite, 
as  certain  others  were  fixed  in  the  heavens  as  con- 
stellations. To  walk  among  them  is  to  see  in 
fancy  the  advent  of  the  wall  of  ice,  mile-high, 
which  buried  the  primitive  jungle  forever.  Here 

130 


|  PASTURE  STONES  || 

the  great  glacier  began  its  retreat,  and  over  the 
spot  there  broods  a  silence,  as  over  historic  ground 
once  the  theater  of  great  actions.  After  untold 
centuries,  the  wild  rose  and  the  hay-scented  fern 
cluster  round  the  boulder,  and  dandelions  star  the 
grass. 

I  please  myself  with  imagining  the  venerable 
pasture  stones  to  have  been  observant  of  events  and 
to  have  retained  the  memory  of  it  all,  as  the 
Colosseum  might  have  memories  of  Rome,  or  the 
Sphinx  of  Egypt  and  the  desert.  Such  have  seen 
races  live  out  their  lives  and  disappear.  That  every 
dog  has  his  day  might  well  be  a  maxim  among 
these  ancient  ones  of  the  earth  who  saw  a  tropic 
jungle  resolve  itself  into  an  Arctic  solitude  and  as 
slowly  give  way  to  a  temperate  zone.  I  salute  the 
pasture  stone  as  having  witnessed  the  advent  of 
man  upon  the  earth.  It  is  difficult  to  associate  the 
tertiary  animals  with  anything  but  the  museum, 
or  to  realize  that  those  preposterous  Paleozoic 
reptiles  were  ever  other  than  fossils.  But  here  is  a 
weather-beaten  observer  that  was  actually  contem- 
porary with  that  life,  to  us  so  intangible  and 
shadowy;  that  knew  the  ancestor  of  the  horse, 
and  ages  before  the  separation  from  the  mother 


IN  THE  OPEN 

ledge,  it  may  be,  was  wont  to  see  the  sky  darkened 
by  flying  reptiles. 

They  were  fashioned  roughly,  these  boulders, 
cast  in  a  rude  mould,  as  if  they  had  emerged 
from  chaos  itself  before  form  had  become  defined. 
The  sea  would  have  all  the  pebbles  on  its  shore 
of  a  size  and  shape.  It  takes  a  block  from  the 
cliff  and  turns  it  in  its  lathe  that  it  may  become  a 
polished  sphere,  as  in  that  larger  and  cosmic  lathe 
the  planets  are  turned.  On  the  beach  are  innu- 
merable stones  that  look  as  much  alike  as  so  many 
eggs.  But  no  two  pasture  stones  are  the  same. 
They  were  turned  in  no  such  precise  lathe  as  the 
sea's,  but  by  a  rough-handed  force,  which  here 
planed  a  surface  and  there  gouged  a  depression. 
Pasture  stones  are  thus  almost  as  individual  in 
appearance  as  men.  Here  is  one  squat  like  a  toad, 
one  humpbacked  as  a  dromedary,  another  flat  as  a 
cake  —  a  mere  slab  of  granite.  They  are  wrinkled 
and  deformed,  as  so  many  gnomes,  and  covered 
with  excrescences  —  razor-backed  or  round-shoul- 
dered, lopsided  or  with  protruding  paunch,  while 
the  great  solitary  boulders  rise  from  the  pasture, 
massive  domes  and  pinnacles  of  granite. 

But  none  are  polished,  none  are  symmetrical; 

132 


]  I  PASTURE  STONES 


nowhere  is  there  an  ellipsoid,  such  as  the  sea  loves 
to  turn,  but  rough  outlines  always.  Frequently 
one  surface  is  rounded;  the  work  of  making  a 
sphere  was  begun  but  progressed  only  thus  far. 
Again,  two  surfaces  may  be  approximately  parallel 
and  the  remainder  rough  and  angular.  Commonly 
it  is  an  affair  of  many  angles,  all  unequal,  and  of 
a  multitude  of  curves  of  different  radii.  It  is  cast 
in  a  mould  it  would  be  difficult  to  classify.  With 
the  multiform  aspects  of  crystals,  they  are  still  not 
so  varied  as  these  pasture  stones.  For  crystals,  for 
leaves,  for  snowflakes,  there  are  definite  patterns. 
But  the  boulder  is  a  thing  by  itself,  subjedt  to 
other  laws  and  formed  under  a  different  order  of 
architecture  —  or  under  no  order  —  but  the  will  of 
the  glacier,  which  has  left  here  and  there  the 
marks  of  its  icy  fingers. 

There  is  a  suggestion  of  friendliness  in  the  way 
the  lichens  clothe  these  stones,  as  though  Nature 
aimed  to  cover  the  scars  she  could  not  heal,  or 
to  hang  them  with  such  rich  medallions  as  the 
parmelia  in  token  of  that  ancient  service.  Here 
are  colors  such  as  only  Time  can  mix, —  shades 
which  are  the  work  of  centuries,  unspeakably 
softened  and  mellowed,  like  ivory  and  meerschaum 


||  IN  THE  OPEN 

and  bronze.  In  its  day  the  Acropolis  may  have 
been  glaring  and  crude  in  tone;  the  raw  marble, 
fresh  from  the  quarry,  needed  these  centuries  to 
subdue  and  mellow  it.  It  has  acquired  a  tender 
beauty  unknown  to  that  classic  day  which  saw  it 
in  its  splendor.  Some  such  service  has  been  ren- 
dered to  the  pasture  stone  and  the  ledge.  When 
the  Archaean  granite  was  poured  out  from  the 
depths  it  must  have  worn  a  new  and  crude  look, 
albeit  so  fresh  and  clean.  Then  it  was  but  so 
much  raw  feldspar  and  quartz  and  mica.  But  it 
has  long  been  wooed  by  the  air  and  the  water,  by 
moss  and  lichen;  the  years  have  lent  it  beauty, 
softened  its  curves,  rounded  its  angles  and  brought 
it  the  richness  of  age. 

Boulders  are  sometimes  clothed  with  a  larger 
growth.  I  have  in  mind  one,  from  whose  apex 
springs  a  maple  at  least  half  a  century  old.  It  lies 
at  the  head  of  a  swamp,  and  in  autumn  this  tree 
is  always  one  of  the  first  to  turn.  In  August  when 
the  tupelos  show  signs  of  change,  the  maple  is 
already  glowing  with  color.  The  tree  springs  from 
the  very  summit  of  the  rock  while  its  main  root 
reaches  through  a  split  some  fifteen  feet  to  the 
earth.  Looking  across  the  swamp,  it  appears  to 


PASTURE  STONES 

| 

crown  the  boulder  with  a  noble  dignity  —  a  land- 
mark in  the  country  round  —  as  if  reflecting  those 
elementary  forces  which  conspired  to  bring  about 
this  unusual  condition, —  the  glacier  which  brought 
the  boulder,  the  winds  which  carried  the  maple 
seed,  the  frost  which  split  the  rock. 

After  their  many  vicissitudes,  the  boulders  have 
settled  down  upon  the  bosom  of  the  pasture  and 
come  to  be  a  fixture  in  the  landscape.  This  pres- 
ent age  is  to  them  the  serene  and  mellow  autumn 
of  their  troubled  life.  Their  day  is  a  thousand 
years.  But  they  are  melting  into  soil  —  as  icicles 
dissolve  in  the  sun  —  in  that  measureless  and  yet 
imperceptible  thaw  which  melts  granite.  The 
pasture  land  is  perhaps  the  dust  of  a  still  more 
primitive  race  whose  life  has  been  transmuted  into 
the  dandelion  and  the  thistle. 


NEIGHBORS 


All  wild  animals  are  wary  and  suspicious,  even 
when  they  do  not  prey  upon  one  another.  What 
friend  has  the  rabbit,  the  chipmunk  or  the  weasel? 
They  lead  friendless  lives  and  die  tragic  deaths. 
Why  should  not  a  rabbit  gossip  with  a  woodchuck, 
for  instance?  One  would  think  their  common 
danger  might  draw  them  together,  and  that  they 
might  perhaps  learn  a  little  woodcraft  one  of  the 
other.  But  caste  is  nowhere  stronger  than  in  the 
woods.  They  do  not  sit  at  meat  together  unless, 
indeed,  one  is  himself  the  repast. 

Like  a  subtle  atmosphere  the  spirit  of  the  wild 
pervades  the  forest.  Whoever  enters  comes  under 
its  spell.  In  the  woods  the  dog  tends  to  revert  to 
the  wolf,  and  savage  instindts  come  to  light.  On 
the  street  he  may  pay  no  heed  to  people,  will 
move  in  and  out  among  them,  himself  a  bit  of 
civilization ;  but  let  him  leave  the  village  and  go 
into  the  woods,  and  he  is  suspicious  and  on  his 
guard. 

136 


]|  NEIGHBORS 


We  have  so  fostered  this  attitude  of  fear  and 
distrust  that  our  wild  neighbors  are  at  best  but 
casual  acquaintances,  if  not  complete  strangers  to 
us.  We  are  like  sharpshooters  ambushed  around 
the  outposts  of  an  encampment.  A  stray  inmate 
pokes  his  head  out  of  the  trenches  and  essays  to  go 
to  the  spring  for  water.  Perhaps  we  let  him  drink 
and  make  a  note  of  that,  then  —  whiz!  we  let 
fly  at  him.  We  discover  what  he  has  had  for 
dinner  and  a  few  other  trifling  matters  —  and  we 
get  his  skin.  His  ways  remain  strange  to  us  and 
his  language  no  more  familiar  than  Choctaw. 
Sometimes  we  catch  him  and  put  him  in  a  cage. 
But  what  can  be  learned  of  a  poor,  sullen  prisoner 
fretting  away  his  life  with  terrible  thoughts  of 
distant  sunlight  and  running  streams  and  friendly 
woods  ? 

The  acquaintance  of  a  wild  animal  is  not  to  be 
made  with  a  gun.  Praftically  nothing  is  learned 
in  this  way;  it  is  difficult  enough  to  know  them 
without  this  barrier.  But  never  to  have  loved  the 
wild  things  is  to  have  lost  much  —  to  have  lived 
less.  Any  dolt  can  shoot  an  animal  and  have  a 
bag  of  bones  for  his  pains,  but  to  win  over  such  a 
creature  in  the  smallest  degree  implies  a  vidtory, 


IN  THE  OPEN  |[ 


and  is  evidence  of  the  redeeming  power  of  the 
heart.  There  is  a  rare  pleasure  in  encountering 
deer  when  you  have  no  designs  upon  them.  Such 
furtive  meetings  are  in  themselves  adequate.  They 
have  the  fascination  of  lovely  faces  seen  for  a 
fleeting  moment  in  a  crowd,  instantly  to  be  lost 
sight  of.  How  little  we  really  know  about  the 
lives'  of  animals.  We  can  surmise  a  few  things  and 
imagine  a  great  many,  but  we  know  next  to 
nothing.  Perhaps  there  is  not  so  very  much  to 
know.  Their  emotions  are  not  complex  but  simple ; 
their  lives  run  in  narrow  grooves.  That  they  suffer, 
much  as  we  suffer,  is  certain,  and  the  main  thing 
is  to  be  kind.  It  is  impossible  to  come  upon 
a  wild  animal  and  watch  it  unobserved  without 
deriving  a  subtle  impression  foreign  to  our  usual 
life.  There  is  something  in  the  free,  savage  exist- 
ence which  is  a  shock  to  the  thought-burdened, 
educated  mind,  and  breaks  for  a  moment  its  prison 
of  glass. 

A  glen  to  which  I  often  go  is,  like  most  others 
in  the  sequestered  woods,  really  populous,  while 
being  to  all  appearances  quite  deserted.  Its  in- 
habitants are  closely  associated  with  the  brook; 
they  drink  at  it  and  all  their  lives  hear  its  song. 

138 


||  NEIGHBORS 

This  glen  is  their  world,  and  yet  they  possess  it 
and  live  in  it  in  virtue  of  persistent  self-effacement. 

There  are  mice  and  shrews,  chipmunks,  red  and 
gray  squirrels,  a  woodchuck  or  two,  a  skunk,  a 
little  gray  rabbit,  a  weasel  and  a  mink.  Far  from 
being  alone,  you  are  watched  by  numerous  un- 
blinking eyes.  From  the  grass,  the  rocks,  the 
trees,  motionless  and  in  silence  these  creatures  are 
observing  you. 

The  squirrels  have  overcome  somewhat  their 
hereditary  fear,  doubtless  because  we  are  more 
kindly  disposed  to  them.  As  I  take  my  lunch 
from  my  pocket,  thinking  to  eat  it  alone,  a  chip- 
munk approaches  and  sniffs  at  the  package  as  I 
put  it  down.  The  aroma  of  bread  and  butter 
tickles  his  nostrils,  suggesting  some  unaccustomed 
variety  of  fare,  and  presently  he  loses  all  fear  and 
begins  tearing  the  paper.  After  a  little  coaxing  he 
takes  a  piece  of  bread  from  my  hand,  licking  the 
butter  off  first  with  his  small  pink  tongue.  He 
has  no  sooner  eaten  it  than  another  chipmunk 
appears  and  sniffs  the  whiskers  of  the  first  one. 
He,  too,  is  overcome  by  the  sedudtive  aroma,  and 
apparently  receives  some  assurances,  for  he  cau- 
tiously approaches  and  takes  a  morsel  of  bread. 


IN  THE  OPEN 

The  package  is  returned  to  my  pocket,  and  both 
chipmunks  climb  in  without  hesitation,  tear  off 
the  paper  and  help  themselves.  Meanwhile  a  third 
arrives,  having  somehow  learned  of  the  good  cheer, 
and  it  is  not  long  before  all  three  are  scrambling 
over  me. 

One  cold  February  day,  when  no  gray  squirrels 
were  to  be  seen,  and  the  snow  lay  deep  in  the 
glen,  a  solitary  red  squirrel  appeared  and  looked 
long  in  my  direction.  Then  by  as  diredt  a  course 
as  the  ground  would  permit,  he  came  toward  me, 
over  the  intervening  boulders,  until  he  reached 
the  one  on  which  I  sat,  whereupon  he  immediately 
ate  the  bits  of  apple  I  gave  him.  He  had  been 
with  me  some  little  time  when  I  chanced  to  look 
over  my  shoulder,  and  there  at  my  elbow  was  the 
mink.  The  squirrel  saw  him  at  once  and  made 
off  toward  the  trees.  The  mink  appeared  to  take 
no  notice  of  him,  but  his  presence  had  evidently 
disturbed  the  harmony  of  the  occasion. 

The  red  squirrel  stands  in  no  awe  of  man,  but 
he  is  as  untamable  as  anything  in  the  woods,  none 
the  less.  Sit  quietly  under  the  hemlocks  and  the 
chances  are  that  before  long  he  will  be  scolding 
at  you  from  somewhere  in  the  tree  tops.  Presently 

140 


IXT'T?  T  C*  t-J  TJ  O  T>  C 
JNJtLlvjJrltSvJKo 

he  will  come  down  the  trunk,  head  foremost, 
moving  mechanically  with  little  jerks,  as  though 
pulled  by  a  string,  his  hind  legs  stretched  straight 
out  above  him.  Down  almost  to  the  ground  he 
comes,  holding  himself  well  out  from  the  tree  and 
eyeing  you  inquisitively.  Suddenly  he  turns  and 
scurries  up  the  tree,  chippering  volubly  meanwhile, 
to  rush  out  on  a  limb  and  continue  the  denuncia- 
tion, adding  emphasis  with  his  tail  with  which 
he  seems  to  gesticulate. 

There  is  no  merrier  sight  in  the  woods  than  a 
pair  of  gray  squirrels  in  a  frisky  mood ;  it  is  unmis- 
takable fun.  The  gray  is  averse  to  the  coniferous 
woods  and  the  red  prefers  them;  thus  each  has 
its  territory.  Apparently  the  red  is  more  self-con- 
tained and  readily  amuses  himself.  He  is  of  a 
more  caustic  mood;  his  fun  is  not  so  childlike 
and  guileless.  Nor  is  he  himself,  for  there  is  a 
dark  streak  in  his  make-up,  a  certain  taint  in  his 
disposition  and  always  a  satirical  note  in  his 
laughter  among  the  tree  tops. 

Eight  inches  or  more  of  snow,  and  a  hard  crust, 
and  it  becomes  poor  pickings  for  the  wild  things. 
Here  and  there  are  holes  where  the  gray  squirrel 
has  been  prospering.  Near  by,  in  most  cases,  lies 

141 


1 

|  IN  THE  OPEN  || 

the  cup  of  an  acorn  and  strips  of  shell,  showing 
the  squirrel  went  directly  to  the  right  place.  It  is 
to  be  observed  how  many  of  these  excavations  are 
under  pines,  sometimes  several  under  a  single  tree. 
As  late  as  the  ist  of  April  I  have  noticed  a  gray 
squirrel  busy  under  a  pignut,  burying  the  nuts 
which  had  lain  on  the  ground  through  the  winter. 
He  would  first  rapidly  shuck  them,  then  dig  a  small 
hole,  force  them  well  into  the  earth  with  a  vigorous 
push  with  his  jaws,  and  as  rapidly  cover  them  again. 
In  this  way  he  would  bury  a  dozen  in  as  many 
minutes,  and  then  make  off  through  the  woods. 
Between  the  squirrels  and  the  mink  family  the 
difference  is  as  much  a  matter  of  disposition  as  of 
structure.  The  mink  is  the  evil  genius  of  the  place. 
His  character  has  written  itself  in  his  physiognomy, 
glitters  in  his  eye  and  shows  itself  in  the  serpentine 
motion  of  his  head.  His  silence  speaks.  But  his 
presence  is  agreeable  in  a  way,  for  it  is  a  touch  of 
that  savage  nature  we  do  not  otherwise  get  with- 
out going  back  into  the  wilderness.  A  squirrel 
reveals  his  candor  in  his  inquisitiveness  and  in  his 
noisy  ways;  curiosity  gets  the  better  of  his  fears. 
These  psychologic  differences  are  as  marked  with 
animals  as  with  men. 

142 


1 

NEIGHBORS 

i 

I  once  surprised  the  weasel  in  this  glen,  with  a 
young  robin  in  her  mouth  which  she  had  just 
taken  from  the  nest  and  was  carrying  home  for 
her  family.  She  dropped  the  bird  when  I  threw 
a  stone,  whereupon  I  stood  by  the  dead  robin  and 
waited,  anticipating  her  return,  for  I  knew  the 
weasel's  boldness  of  old.  Almost  immediately  the 
sinister-looking  creature  poked  her  head  from  the 
bushes  and,  without  hesitation,  approached  and 
seized  the  bird  where  it  lay  between  my  feet. 
Another  stone  caused  her  to  drop  it  again  before 
she  had  gone  far.  This  time  I  moved  the  robin 
some  little  distance  away  and  stood  beside  it  as 
before.  Soon  the  weasel  reappeared,  and  going  to 
the  spot  where  she  had  last  dropped  it,  became 
visibly  excited  on  finding  it  gone.  She  then  began 
rapidly  following  the  scent,  like  a  hound,  and  at 
length  by  a  circuitous  course,  approached,  and 
again  took  the  bird  from  under  my  feet. 

Almost  every  fine  day  in  autumn  the  wood- 
chuck  is  to  be  met.  He  emerges  from  the  bushes 
with  deliberation  and  ambles  out  into  the  open 
where  there  is  a  little  clover  to  tempt  him,  his 
tawny  legs  showing  in  strong  contrast  with  his 
grayish  back  and  scraggly  black  tail.  His  enjoy- 

143 


]  I  IN  THE  OPEN  I  [ 


ment  is  evident;  the  sun  feels  good  to  him.  He 
is  a  chilly  body,  and,  like  the  snakes,  cannot  get 
any  too  much  warmth.  Now  he  sits  upon  his 
haunches  and  takes  a  deliberate  survey,  then  pokes 
some  greens  into  his  mouth  with  his  forepaws.  If 
his  sharp  ears  bring  him  no  suspicious  sound,  he 
drops  upon  all  fours  and  goes  to  browsing  again. 
No  one  has  explained  why  the  woodchuck  holes 
up  so  early  in  the  autumn  and  comes  out  at  such 
an  unseasonable  time  in  the  spring.  He  goes  in 
while  there  is  still  plenty  to  eat,  and  reappears 
when  there  is  scarcely  anything  to  be  had.  Pos- 
sibly the  habit  was  acquired  in  some  remote  past 
when  the  winter  may  have  come  earlier  in  the 
year,  and  the  woodchucks,  being  a  conservative 
race  and  loath  to  change  their  ways,  have  never 
adapted  themselves,  but  go  to  bed  now  as  it  were 
in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  and  get  up  before 
daybreak,  impelled  to  this  early  rising  by  hunger. 
Soon  we  shall  be  walking  over  his  head,  but  it 
will  not  disturb  his  nap.  He  will  have  rolled 
himself  up  in  a  ball  for  a  four  or  five  months' 
snooze  in  company  with  all  the  little  frogs  and 
snakes  —  a  sleepy  crowd.  The  chipmunk  is  like- 
wise a  chilly  body,  but  he  is  not  going  to  fast  — 

144 


|                 ||NEIGHBORS| 

not  he  —  so  he  lays  in  a  good  store  of  chestnuts 
and  makes  all  snug  for  the  cold  weather. 

While  the  moral  of  the  ant  and  the  grasshopper 
will  doubtless  always  hold  good,  there  is  little 
incentive  for  the  grasshopper  to  become  thrifty  as 
few  would  live  to  enjoy  the  results.  But  the 
woodchuck  might  well  profit  by  the  example  of 
the  chipmunk,  who  loves  his  comfort  and  a  well- 
stocked  larder  in  which  to  snooze  away  the  winter 
months,  a  round  of  dinners  and  after-dinner  naps. 
Besides  his  hordes  of  beech  and  chestnuts,  he  is 
credited  with  gathering  the  seeds  of  the  buttercup 
as  well  as  buckwheat  and  grass  seed.  I  have  seen 
him  on  the  tips  of  witch-hazel  twigs  biting  off 
the  nutlets  of  the  preceding  year.  He  has  some 
variety  at  his  table  then.  The  buttercups  must 
b^e  in  the  nature  of  a  delicacy  —  his  sweetcakes 
perhaps. 

As  the  weather  grows  colder  the  vegetation 
seems  to  droop  hourly,  the  bare  earth  becoming 
visible,  except  where  the  dry  leaves  have  roofed 
themselves  over  the  huckleberry  bushes  or  in  the 
thick  tangle  of  briers.  The  rabbit  must  feel 
himself  rather  too  much  in  evidence  as  the  ground 
is  thus  exposed,  and  perforce  relies  more  on  his 

145 


]  I  IN  THE  OPEN 


protective  coloration  to  escape  notice.  An  adept 
at  dissimulation,  he  turns  into  a  stump  and  remains 
so  indefinitely.  Yet  looking  at  him  recently,  as 
he  sat  motionless  on  some  dry  leaves  among  the 
bare  stems  of  the  blackcap  raspberries,  I  was 
struck  with  how  poor  a  refuge  his  colors  really  do 
afford  when  once  your  eye  is  upon  him.  At  the 
first  glance,  and  before  he  had  come  into  the 
mental  vision  as  a  rabbit,  he  appeared  as  a  small 
grayish  stump  covered  with  buff-tinted  shelf  fungi. 
But  the  moment  I  looked  sharply  at  him,  he  was 
a  rabbit  in  every  detail.  His  colors  did  not  greatly 
harmonize  with  the  oak  leaves  on  which  he  sat, 
yet  he  allowed  me  to  approach  and  walk  around 
him.  It  is  all  a  matter  of  the  attention;  by  re- 
maining quiet  the  animal  does  not  arrest  the  eye 
readily,  but  once  this  is  directed  upon  him  the 
disguise  is  seen  to  be  very  thin. 

Save  for  his  nose,  which  wobbled  slightly,  he 
was  motionless  as  a  stone.  After  some  time  his 
ear  moved  gently,  much  as  a  leaf  is  turned  over 
by  the  wind,  but  his  eye  never  winked  and  its 
expression  was  one  of  extreme  alertness.  On  too 
near  an  approach  he  made  off  in  haste.  Noting 
his  direction,  I  followed  to  see  if  I  could  again 

146 


1        1 

NEIGHBORS 

i 

locate  him.  For  some  time  no  rabbit  was  visible, 
when  I  chanced  again  upon  a  little  gray  stump 
covered  with  buff-tinted  fungi,  which  appeared 
this  time  on  the  pine-needles  and  just  within  the 
charmed  precinfts  of  the  briers. 

I  produced  an  apple  as  a  peace  offering  and  in 
token  of  my  good-will  and  desire  to  be  of  service 
to  the  tribe  of  gray  rabbits.  He  remained  like  a 
stone  while  the  bits  of  apple  descended  about  him 
and  lay  at  a  tempting  distance.  At  last  there  was 
a  more  vigorous  wobbling  of  the  nose,  the  long 
ears  moved  —  as  a  leaf  turns  —  and  with  two  little 
hops  he  approached  and  accepted  the  token,  and 
we  were  brought  together  in  amity  in  the  silent 
woods.  A  humble  offering,  indeed,  but  it  served 
for  the  moment  to  bring  me  in  touch  with  the 
wild  and  to  strike  a  common  chord.  The  seem- 
ingly impassable  barrier  of  caste,  which  lies  between 
man  and  the  wild  things,  was  crossed,  and  we  broke 
bread  together. 

After  a  light  fall  of  snow  it  is  instructive  to  read 
what  the  rabbit  has  written  in  his  diary.  Such 
scattered  notes  as  he  leaves  are  wholly  personal 
and  do  not  seem  to  imply  interest  in  anything 
but  himself.  You  may  see  where  he  has  hopped 


IN  THE  OPEN 

through  his  runways  and  stopped  now  and  then 
when  the  necessity  appealed  to  him  of  removing 
certain  briers  to  keep  the  passageway  clear.  Some- 
times it  is  a  stem  of  the  catbrier ;  again  a  rose  or 
blackberry.  In  every  case  it  is  cut  obliquely  and 
as  sharply  and  neatly  as  with  a  knife.  Frequently 
stems  are  severed  thickly  set  with  thorns  and 
prickers,  and  the  wonder  is  how  he  closed  his 
teeth  upon  them  without  getting  an  unpleasant 
mouthful.  Hundreds  of  cuts  reveal  never  a  slip  or 
break,  but  each  is  sharply  defined  as  if  done  by 
one  stroke  of  a  razor.  His  track  shows  places 
where  he  sat  upon  his  haunches,  and  where  he 
stood  up  to  reach  the  buds  of  a  stunted  wild  apple ; 
again  he  followed  the  shore  of  the  pond  and 
nibbled  the  small  willows  and  clethra.  Occasion- 
ally he  appears  to  have  cut  a  large  brier  merely 
for  practice  in  using  his  teeth. 

Rabbit  and  fox  are  outlaws  and  without  rights. 
They  are  hunted  to  death ;  hence  they  live  by 
their  wits  if  they  live  at  all.  It  has  become  second 
nature  to  them  to  proceed  indirectly,  to  break  the 
scent  and  double  on  their  tracks  whenever  occa- 
sion offers.  The  fox  knows  few  foes  besides  men 
and  dogs,  but  the  rabbit  must  circumvent  owls, 

148 


NEIGHBORS  || 

weasels,  minks  and  foxes  as  well.  Hence  I  bow 
to  the  rabbit  as  to  a  superior  intelligence :  one 
deeply  versed  in  the  ancient  lore  of  woodcraft  and 
possessing  knowledge  as  yet  unrevealed  to  us.  Does 
he  carry  some  charm  whereby  the  earth  opens 
and  receives  him  in  need,  some  tarn  hut  in  which 
he  becomes  invisible,  or  does  the  fabled  St.-John's- 
wort  exercise  for  his  race  a  special  protection? 
What  shall  fill  the  place  of  the  wild  things  when 
they  are  swept  from  the  earth  ?  Why  not  tolerate 
an  occasional  fox  if  only  to  hear  him  yap,  and  to 
have  the  assurance  that  there  is  still  this  much 
untamed  ? 

In  such  a  timid  world,  where  fear  of  man  is  so 
large  a  factor,  one  is  struck  by  the  least  evidence 
of  self-assurance.  In  view  of  this  I  entertain  a 
covert  admiration  for  the  skunk.  Fear  rests  lightly 
on  his  shoulders.  Meet  him  in  the  woods,  teeter- 
ing along,  and  he  is  the  less  concerned  of  the  two. 
His  imperturbability  is  his  leading  characteristic. 
In  this  he  is  the  very  opposite  of  the  coon.  But  he 
knows  how  terrible  is  the  weapon  he  carries,  how 
vulnerable  the  nose  of  man.  The  nose  is  the  point 
of  attack ;  he  would  slay  you  through  your  olfac- 
tories. It  is  seldom  any  one  says  a  good  word 

149 


IN  THE  OPEN 

| 

for  the  skunk.  He  must  needs  be  a  villain  and  a 
chicken  thief  who  smells  thus  to  heaven.  Yet  in 
faft  there  are  bolder  thieves  in  town  than  he,  with 
more  sinister  designs  on  the  hen-roost.  It  is  im- 
polite to  mention  him,  as  though  his  name  were 
as  unsavory  as  his  odor.  Men  deal  more  kindly 
with  his  memory,  for  he  is  permitted  to  undergo 
a  commercial  transfiguration,  to  rise  triumphant 
from  the  vat,  henceforth  to  be  taken  to  our  bosoms 
as  Alaska  sable. 

The  skunk  receives  no  credit  for  the  countless 
beetles  he  grubs  from  the  earth.  No  more  does 
the  mole  who  suffers  for  the  sins  of  the  meadow- 
mouse.  They  are  victims  of  prejudice.  When  I 
see  a  mole  emerge  from  the  earth,  I  feel  I  am 
looking  upon  an  inhabitant  of  another  sphere  — 
the  underworld;  one  as  strange  to  me  as  I  am  to 
him.  What  use  has  he  for  the  sun  ?  He  cares  not 
for  celestial  light,  but  for  subterranean  fires  only. 

In  the  pond  above  the  glen  is  a  colony  of 
muskrats.  It  antedates  the  memory  of  the  oldest 
inhabitants,  and  the  muskrats  were  in  all  proba- 
bility the  first  settlers  themselves.  The  huts,  which 
lie  scattered  through  the  sedge  and  cattails,  are 
some  of  them  flat  while  others  are  high  and  dome- 
150 


NEIGHBORS 

i 

shaped.  Their  number  does  not  seem  to  vary 
much  from  year  to  year,  whereas  muskrats  are 
said  to  be  very  prolific.  What,  then,  becomes  of 
all  the  young?  I  have  never  known  of  any  one 
trapping  or  killing  them  in  this  pond.  It  may 
be  the  old  mink  in  the  glen,  and  many  another, 
make  this  their  hunting-ground  and  thus  keep 
down  the  number. 

These  queer  neighbors  pique  our  curiosity. 
What  manner  of  life  do  they  lead  indoors  ?  They 
take  some  rude  pleasure  and  have  dull  animal 
thoughts  perhaps.  As  you  stamp  upon  the  ice 
and  slap  your  hands  to  keep  from  freezing,  the 
muskrat  sits  serenely  below  enjoying  the  comforts 
of  the  pond,  and  quite  unaware  the  mercury  has 
dropped  to  zero.  He  has  built  him  a  house  and 
stocked  his  cellar,  and  what  cares  he.  As  snug  as 
a  mouse  in  a  cheese,  he  has  taken  the  precaution 
to  make  his  home  of  his  favorite  dish.  Let  the 
world  freeze,  then,  if  it  will,  he  nibbles  the  walls 
of  his  room  till  it  thaws  again.  Consider  the  in- 
terior of  that  dwelling,  what  a  murky  house  is 
there,  its  front  door  under  water  and  never  a 
window. 

Muskrats  repair  and  enlarge  their  huts  in  the 


IN  THE  OPEN 

fall,  and  perhaps  subsequently  gnaw  out  as  much 
from  the  inside  as  they  add  to  the  exterior.  The 
walls  are  made  of  grass  and  sedge  roots,  together 
with  spatter-docks  and  bur-reeds.  During  the 
summer  you  might  not  suspect  the  presence  of 
one,  hidden  as  they  are  in  the  cattails  and  rank 
growth  of  sedge.  As  the  vegetation  dies  down  in 
autumn,  the  huts  loom  proportionately,  so  that 
they  come  prominently  into  view  by  November; 
and  then,  on  some  fine  cold  morning,  in  place  of 
the  reedy  pond,  appears  a  sheet  of  ice  with  isolated 
domes  rising  here  and  there.  From  these,  the 
muskrat  and  his  family  travel  to  their  feeding- 
grounds.  They  have  chosen  their  estate  at  the 
bottom  of  the  pond  —  rich  lands  for  which  none 
contend  with  them. 

In  fact  our  wild  neighbors  all  live  in  a  dim 
world  of  shadows,  in  which  they  lurk  like  phan- 
toms. They  have  retreated  into  the  night,  and 
for  days  together  you  may  not  meet  one.  But 
the  new  fallen  snow  reveals  their  presence. 


152 


THE  WINTER 
WOODS 


The  first  snow-storm  of  the  season  never  becomes 
an  old  story.  It  retains  its  charm  indefinitely,  to 
all  original  minds  at  least,  and  to  such  as  have 
cherished  any  degree  of  simplicity.  Here  is  a 
mimic  invasion  of  an  elemental  beauty  which 
conquers  us  by  reason  of  its  very  gentleness.  We 
are  soothed  and  beguiled  into  submission.  Tem- 
pestuous winds  call  forth  our  resistance;  we  front 
them  with  set  teeth.  But  who  can  resist  the  silent 
snow  descending  as  if  to  lay  the  world  under  a 
soft  enchantment?  The  woods  are  renewed  and 
reclothed  in  virgin  purity.  It  is  as  if  old  scores 
were  wiped  out  and  the  world  were  again  a  spot- 
less thing. 

What  can  be  more  companionable  than  the 
falling  snow?  Its  touch  is  so  caressing,  its  advent 
so  silent  in  the  open,  its  voice  so  pleasing  as  it  sifts 
through  the  pine-needles.  The  first  solitary  flakes 
approach  with  the  gentle  effedt  of  preparing  one 
for  the  miracle  to  ensue.  A  calm  settles  over  all, 

'53 


IN  THE  OPEN 

as  though  these  were  indeed  the  messengers  of 
peace. 

Recently  there  fell  such  a  clinging  and  abun- 
dant snow  as  comes  perhaps  only  once  in  a  season, 
and  some  years  not  at  all.  The  woods  were  literally 
buried  and  saplings  everywhere  bent  to  the  ground 
beneath  its  weight.  It  enveloped  the  pines  until 
they  became  miniature  Alps  in  the  landscape, 
while  among  the  oaks  were  gleaming  corridors 
and  marble  halls.  The  open,  barren  aspeft  common 
to  winter  was  gone,  and  the  dense  walls  had  shut 
in  again  as  in  summer,  but  now  crystalline  and 
dazzling. 

This  is  perhaps  Nature's  greatest  transformation. 
In  a  single  night  have  been  erefted  such  palaces 
as  were  never  seen  in  Persia.  What  a  bold,  free 
hand  wrought  here!  In  the  thousand  domes  and 
arches  is  a  massive  architecture,  relieved  by  the 
utmost  delicacy,  as  though  Nature  said,  "Behold, 
I  show  you  a  miracle."  A  miracle  indeed!  Here 
have  wrought  the  genii  of  the  air  while  mortals 
slept,  and  all  that  was  to  be  heard  was  the 
rustling  of  their  wings.  At  such  times  the  woods 
grow  suddenly  strange  and  unfamiliar.  They  so 
lend  themselves  to  the  enchantment  we  are  lost  in 

'54 


THE  WINTER  WOODS 


our  own  wood-lot.  Familiar  paths  are  obliterated 
by  pendulous  boughs  drooping  to  the  earth,  while 
in  the  pasture  tree-sparrows  hop  upon  the  snow 
among  the  protruding  tops  of  the  tallest  ragweeds. 

Realize  if  you  can  in  your  walk,  over  how  many 
sleepers  you  step  all  unknown;  how  many  wood- 
chucks  in  their  burrows,  and  frogs  in  the  mud 
under  the  ice ;  how  many  torpid  snakes  and  dozing 
chipmunks.  Here  is  an  enchanted  household  — 
underground.  They  are  at  peace  and  their  timid 
hearts  know  no  fear.  The  dreaming  toad  has  no 
terror  of  writhing  blacksnakes,  and  the  snoozing 
woodchuck  has  forgotten  the  dog.  Presently  they 
will  awake  to  hunger  and  fear  again.  Woodchucks 
will  be  up  long  before  breakfast,  to  go  shivering 
in  the  cold  dawn  of  the  year  waiting  for  the  table 
to  be  spread.  Snakes  do  not  come  out  till  the 
sun  is  well  up,  to  lie  basking  in  the  noonday  heat, 
catching  the  first  unwary  grasshoppers. 

Every  fresh  snowfall  makes  some  revelation  of 
its  own,  recording  crepuscular  journeys  and  prowl- 
ings  in  the  night.  The  broad  track  of  the  skunk 
meanders  in  and  out  among  the  bushes.  That  he 
had  no  definite  direction,  took  never  a  straight 
course,  nor  apparently  did  he  hurry,  is  in  itself 

1SS 


1 

IN  THE  OPEN 

evidence  of  his  phlegmatic  temperament  and  lei- 
surely habit  of  mind.  Footprints  of  the  ruffed 
grouse  show  that  he  has  on  his  snow-shoes,  inas- 
much as  they  are  feathered,  broad  and  lobed  rather 
than  angular.  The  squirrel  leaves  evidence  of  his 
impetuous  ways,  moving  always  impulsively,  and 
the  snow  makes  plain  record  of  the  fa6l.  Tracks 
of  deer  seem  to  bespeak  their  innocence,  as  that 
of  the  fox  might  be  said  to  have  a  sinister  purport, 
doubtless  because  the  hoofprints  have  a  gentle 
suggestion  and  imply  the  herbivorous  diet. 

In  the  winter  walk  the  eye  finds  relatively  so 
little  to  hold  it,  that  it  rivets  itself  upon  minute 
details,  dissecting  that  which  might  pass  unnoticed 
at  other  seasons.  Form  and  outline  come  into 
prominence  while  color  is  in  abeyance.  We  must 
now  perforce  judge  the  trees  by  this  standard.  Who 
shall  describe  the  winter  beauty  of  the  beech  as  it 
stands  stripped  and  naked  to  the  winds  like  an 
athlete,  every  muscle  and  sinew  in  evidence,  every 
outline  expressive  of  reserve  power  and  self-assur- 
ance—  a  clean-limbed,  stout-hearted  tree,  dauntless 
before  all  gales?  Its  trunk  is  a  superb  torso,  and 
with  its  roots  it  reaches  down  to  the  heart  of  the 
earth,  draws  sustenance  therefrom  and  derives  heat 


I  I 


I 


I 


THE  WINTER  WOODS 

from  that  deep-lying  warmth  below  all  frost  lines. 
No  parasite  this,  no  surface  weed,  but  the  sturdy 
child  of  Earth  herself,  suckled  by  a  Spartan  mother. 
Look  upon  an  ancient  beech,  bared  thus  to  the 
storm,  and  the  chest  involuntarily  expands,  as 
though  we  too  should  take  firmer  hold  somewhere 
and  stand  more  eredt.  The  shellbark  is  as  shaggy, 
raw-boned  and  loose-jointed  as  the  beech  is  trim 
and  closely  knit.  Its  bare  branches  are  not  clean- 
cut  against  the  sky  but  swollen  and  distorted  like 
knotted  hands  of  toil  —  horny,  crooked  fingers  up- 
raised to  the  heavens.  What  rude  strength  is  their 
portion  who  stand  thus  alone  and  derive  from  the 
earth  as  befits  the  stalwart  —  buffeting,  solitary 
and  unyielding,  the  winter  gales. 

As  the  trees  are  leafless,  the  bark  is  now  more 
in  evidence.  Moosewood  looks  slender  and  striped 
as  a  ribbon-snake,  and  limbs  of  the  hop-hornbeam 
have  the  appearance  of  sinews.  Where  a  black 
and  a  white  oak  stand  near  together,  the  dif- 
ference in  color  is  as  evident  as  between  a  negro 
and  a  white  man.  The  white  birch  is  to  the 
winter  woods  what  the  dogwood  is  in  spring,  the 
maple  in  autumn.  How  is  it  the  ancients  did  not 
metamorphose  the  fairest  of  all  nymphs  into  this 

'57 


||  IN 

THE  OPEN 

1 

tree,  so  distinctly  feminine  is  its  beauty  ?  Portions 
of  bark  outlast  the  wood,  and  are  to  be  found 
standing  ere6t  and  empty.  The  tree  has  departed, 
bequeathing  its  fair  skin  in  token  of  a  vanished 
loveliness.  Now  and  then  the  yellow  birch  is  seen 
in  all  its  beauty,  the  golden  inner  bark  shining 
through  a  silver  filigree.  To  look  at  this  tree  is 
like  looking  at  a  picture  or  reading  a  poem:  one 
feels  somehow  refreshed.  Nor  is  the  black  birch 
without  charm;  its  bark  has  a  dusky  beauty,  and 
again  shows  fine  wood  colors  and  metallic  tints 
similar  to  the  black  cherry.  This  fine  luster  the 
birch  has  in  an  eminent  degree  while  most  trees 
show  it  only  on  their  small  branches,  if  at  all. 

Club-mosses  appear  to  be  a  lesser  growth  of 
pines,  a  pygmy  folk  dwelling  at  the  feet  of  the 
elder  race.  Here  are  miniature  trunks  and  branches 
bearing  miniature  cones,  perfect  little  conifers  no 
higher  than  a  chickadee.  Ground-pine  and  trailing 
Christmas  green  thrive  together  on  the  bank,  the 
latter  with  stems  a  yard  long,  which,  while  they 
grow  at  one  end,  die  at  the  other.  These  little 
plants  are  crisp  and  green  and  refresh  the  eye  on 
winter  days,  as  does  the  Christmas  fern,  which 
affords  a  pleasant  encounter  at  a  time  when  one 

158 


THE  WINTER  WOODSJ) 

meets  few  acquaintances.  It  has,  moreover,  a  certain 
charm  of  its  own  which  doubtless  lies  in  the  crisp- 
ness  of  the  fronds  and  clear-cut  outlines  of  the 
pinna?.  The  marginal  shield-fern  is  another  ac- 
quaintance to  be  looked  for  on  the  winter  walk, 
and  everywhere  the  hardy  polypody,  which  is  as 
much  a  child  of  winter  as  the  little  spiny  cladonia 
that  clusters  about  its  roots  and  clings  to  the  same 
granite  ledge. 

Let  there  come  a  warm  rain,  the  high  blue- 
berries redden  their  twigs  and  the  lichens  renew 
their  tints  —  quite  as  though  Nature  had  softened 
her  heart.  These  lichens  suddenly  become  con- 
spicuous with  a  sort  of  gentle  prominence,  and 
mildly  compe1  attention;  on  the  oaks  the  yellow 
cetraria,  on  the  white  pines,  olive,  slate-colored 
and  blue-green  parmelias.  Had  faun  and  satyr 
thus  carved  upon  the  forest  trees  the  name  of  some 
fair  Rosalind  among  the  nymphs,  they  could  not 
have  wrought  in  more  fitting  and  altogether  sylvan 
characters. 

A  common  necessity  and  hardship  hold  the 
birds  together  in  closer  bonds  so  that  they  are 
impelled  to  consort  in  little  roving  bands  —  chick- 
adees, creepers,  kingletsjand  nuthatches^  with  often 

'59 


||  IN  THE  OPEN 

a  single  downy  woodpecker  accompanying  them. 
If  one  chance  to  drop  a  morsel  he  will  descend 
to  the  ground  in  search  of  it.  He  will  not  waste 
a  spider's  egg,  so  severe  has  been  the  lesson  in 
economy.  In  zero  weather  the  jay  forgets  to  be 
saucy,  and  if  there  is  a  glaze  on  the  snow,  his 
native  impertinence  seems  to  ooze  from  him,  and 
he  becomes  meek  enough.  Taking  a  weazened 
acorn  from  the  tree,  he  holds  the  nut  with  one 
claw,  and  with  vigorous  taps  of  his  bill  tears  it 
open.  After  extracting  the  frozen  kernel,  he  drops 
the  shell  with  a  trace  of  his  customary  imperti- 
nence, as  though  feeling  in  somewhat  better  spirits 
for  even  this  poor  repast.  A  bone  nailed  to  a  tree 
is  inducement  for  him  to  stay  near  the  house,  but 
not  when  he  can  get  acorns  readily. 

The  board  may  fairly  creak  with  its  weight  of 
partridgeberries,  beechnuts  and  acorns,  many  of 
the  latter  crushed  and  available,  and  then  in  a 
night  this  plentiful  feast  is  put  out  of  sight  under 
a  six-inch  layer  of  snow,  to  which  the  next  day 
adds  a  glaze  as  if  to  seal  irrevocably  the  doom  of 
all  bob-whites.  A  fast  has  been  declared  in  effe6t, 
as  peremptorily  as  by  any  medieval  pope,  to  be 
broken  only  with  an  occasional  leaf  bud  or  the 

1 60 


||  THE  WINTER  WOODS 

poor  seeds  of  the  ragweed.  But  the  good  sun  is  a 
trusty  friend,  and  snow  is  only  so  much  water. 
Presently  berries  and  acorns  again  come  into  view. 

There  is  no  more  touching  note  in  nature  than 
the  bob-white's  at  this  season,  as  wandering  to- 
gether in  the  snow  in  search  of  their  scanty  fare 
they  utter  from  time  to  time  those  low  but  distinct 
calls  in  which  they  seemingly  express  their  solici- 
tude. June  itself  has  no  sweeter  song  than  this 
note  of  the  winter  woods,  albeit  it  is  such  a 
plaintive  one :  mother-notes  these,  and  child-voices 
of  the  hunted,  full  of  a  wild  pathos, —  tender 
voices  which  to  us  have  been  but  the  inarticulate 
cries  of  the  dumb.  The  birds  feed  frequently  on 
the  crushed  acorns  lying  in  the  path,  and  the  jay 
at  times  participates  to  the  extent  of  taking  an 
acorn  from  the  feast  and  eating  it  in  the  branches 
above,  where  he  is  a  good  sentinel,  though  prone 
to  imitate  the  quailing  of  the  red-shouldered  hawk 
when  the  feast  is  at  its  height,  to  the  general  dis- 
comfiture and  alarm  of  the  diners  below. 

Birds  become  less  suspicious  as  the  mercury 
falls,  and  they  are  hard  pressed  for  food.  The 
snow  around  the  ragweeds  is  thickly  covered  with 
the  tracks  of  bob-whites,  like  those  of  chickens, 

161 


IN  THE  OPEN 

| 

broad  and  firm,  but  with  hardly  any  hind  toe 
mark  at  all,  as  though  they  walked  about  on  tip- 
toe. Very  different  from  these  are  the  long,  trian- 
gular tracks  of  the  jays,  showing  where  they  have 
hopped  upon  the  snow.  It  is  thus  fairly  tramped 
down  and  strewn  with  leaves  and  chaff  where  the 
bob-whites  have  fed,  leaving  these  husks  in  token 
of  their  frugal  meal.  Such  seed  must  be  very 
small  provender  for  these  birds  —  much  like  a  diet 
of  crumbs  for  a  hungry  man.  Goldfinches,  juncos 
and  tree-sparrows  seek  the  same  meager  repast. 
The  musical  flocks  of  redpolls  fare  better  in  the 
alders  around  the  pond.  These  are  not  to  be  seen 
every  day,  any  more  than  the  pine-siskins  —  per- 
haps not  at  all  during  several  years.  But  occasion- 
ally an  enormous  flock  will  arrive  and  settle  in  the 
alders  with  all  the  chattering  and  commotion  of  a 
social  and  hungry  company  As  the  seeds  are 
shaken  down  upon  the  ice,  the  birds  soon  leave 
the  bushes,  and  are  under  the  table,  so  to  speak. 
Crossbills  have  the  easier  time,  feeding  as  they 
do  on  the  seeds  of  the  pine,  for  these  are  always 
available.  No  sound  seems  better  to  accord  with 
the  spirit  of  a  still  cold  winter  day  than  this  faint 
crackling  of  opening  cones,  forced  asunder  by  the 

162 


THE  WINTER  WOODS  | 

shearing  motion  of  the  peculiar  bills  of  these  birds. 
Surely  here  is  an  adaptation  to  definite  ends.  Nature 
produces  a  cone  that  cannot  readily  be  opened, 
and,  as  if  relenting,  produces  a  bird  to  open  it. 
The  wings  of  the  seeds  come  zigzagging  to  the 
ground  as  the  feast  continues  overhead  —  all  that 
is  destined  to  be  planted. 

The  lumbermen  come  into  the  woods  with  the 
crossbills,  and  everywhere  is  heard  the  winter 
music  of  the  ax.  It  is  good  music  enough,  but  it 
has  a  sinister  purport,  and  the  swish  and  boom  of 
falling  trees  is  a  sad  refrain.  Ancient  pines  are  laid 
low,  singing  to  the  last  their  brave  and  beautiful 
song,  which  seems  to  come,  not  diredtly  from 
overhead,  but  remotely  from  the  empyrean,  as 
though  it  issued  from  the  distant  Court  of  the 
Winds.  Of  the  pantheon  of  trees  the  village  elm 
is  the  last  to  hold  our  homage;  we  have  dethroned 
our  idols.  As  the  sound  of  the  ax  breaks  the  still- 
ness, I  find  myself  instinctively  turning  in  the 
opposite  direction,  to  escape  that  which  is  soon  to 
follow  —  the  swan-song  of  the  forest  primeval. 


163 


LAUGHING 
WATERS 


There  are  days  when  the  sea  is  austere  and  un- 
approachable, when  its  mood  is  too  lofty  and 
severe.  But  the  pond,  fringed  with  alders  and 
button-bushes,  smiles  in  the  sunshine  and  is 
friendly  and  inviting.  It  is  more  on  the  level  of 
our  every-day  thought.  Not  always  are  we  con- 
soled by  the  vast  and  sublime,  and  we  crave  even 
more  the  companionable  and  social  aspects  of 
Nature.  Grim  though  the  surroundings  of  granite 
ledge  and  somber  pines,  the  nestling  pond  is  win- 
some, notwithstanding.  Never  forbidding,  never 
altogether  distant  in  its  mood,  even  though  frozen, 
it  is  a  cheerful  and  alluring  personality  to  which 
we  are  drawn  from  afar. 

About  a  pond  as  about  a  mountain  there  is  a  kind 
of  magnetism.  A  new  field  of  discovery,  there  is 
ever  the  hope  that  from  a  new  scene  we  shall 
gain  a  fresh  impression.  Every  pond  holds  out 
this  possibility  and  invites  exploration  of  its  shores, 
as  if  there  were  the  promised  land.  But  over  and 


LAUGHING  WATERS  [  [ 


above  this  is  that  element  of  personality,  a  charm 
purely  feminine,  and  eluding  any  attempt  to  hold  it. 

Peculiarly  sensitive  to  light  and  air,  a  pond  is 
susceptible  of  little  moods  that  do  not  come  to 
the  sea.  It  is  the  eye  of  the  landscape.  Dawn, 
high  noon  and  dusk  are  each  reflected  there.  Its 
afternoon  mood  is  not  like  that  of  the  morning 
any  more  than  is  our  own.  The  more  passive  it 
is,  the  more  perfectly  it  reflects  the  heavens.  At 
all  time  it  draws  to  itself  light  from  the  sky,  and 
when  the  surrounding  woods  are  swallowed  in  the 
advancing  darkness,  still  gleams  with  a  faint  opal- 
escence.  These  pale  glimmers  illumine  the  bogs, 
where  a  pool  has  caught  and  retained  the  daylight, 
or  rather  the  speftral  light  of  dawn.  One  appears 
to  look  through  this  serene  and  reflecting  surface 
into  the  heart  of  some  other  wood,  darkly  myste- 
rious and  impenetrable,  which  vanishes  when  the 
wind  blows,  as  if  the  curtain  were  drawn. 

Gently  as  snowflakes,  the  leaves  detach  them- 
selves and  settle  on  the  ponds,  to  sail  away  like 
diminutive  barks  upon  those  friendly  seas.  Num- 
berless sails  of  scarlet  and  gold  softly  scud  before 
the  breeze,  threading  the  inlets  between  the  button- 
bushes  and  crowding  the  miniature  bays;  oriental 

165 


1 

IN  THE  OPEN  || 

craft  these,  of  rich  aspeft;  caciques  and  royal  barges 
upon  some  Golden  Horn.  Here  and  there,  one 
more  venturesome  steers  boldly  out  into  the  open, 
carried  by  favoring  winds,  and  makes  some  foreign 
port  among  the  lily-pads.  You  may  become  enam- 
ored of  a  winsome  pond  on  October  days,  a  mys- 
tical beauty  veiled  in  autumn  haze,  only  to  find 
her  mood  changed  for  the  reserve  and  uncom- 
municativeness  of  winter. 

When  the  pond  freezes  over  we  experience 
something  of  that  feeling  which  comes  with  the 
first  snow,  a  delightful  sense  of  novelty,  briefly 
entertained  each  season.  The  water  has  suddenly 
lost  its  mobility  and  become  passive  and  expres- 
sionless, as  one  in  a  hypnotic  state.  A  great  calm 
has  settled  upon  the  earth;  the  winter  sleep  is  in 
the  air  and  the  ponds  have  succumbed  with  the 
woodchuck.  Only  the  chickadees,  scolding  and 
gossiping  in  trie  pitch-pines,  seem  to  be  awake 
and  unaffected  by  the  change.  A  cold  bluish  light 
pervades  the  leafless  woods,  reflected  from  the 
snow  and  appearing  to  emanate  from  the  ground 
rather  than  the  sky.  The  earth  is  wrapped  in 
silence,  yet  it  is  not  austere  nor  repellent.  One 
feels  this  stillness,  which  appeals  to  some  sixth 

166 


1  1  LAUGHING  WATERS 

sense,  and  is  more  acceptable  at  times  than  any 
music, —  is  itself  the  most  heavenly  music. 

Far  across  the  valley  the  steam  of  a  passing 
locomotive  rises  slowly,  and  then,  like  the  opening 
of  a  flower,  unfolds  in  snow-white  voluptuous 
petals  and  remains  as  if  carved  in  the  still  air.  A 
shaft  of  light  reaches  the  eye  from  a  distant  pool 
of  molten  silver  at  the  base  of  purple  hills.  All 
around  are  little  sparkling  lights  of  icicles,  flashing 
their  pure  rays  in  the  sun.  It  is  the  magic  water, 
the  protean  thing  so  full  of  light,  laughter  and 
music.  Once  it  was  laughter;  now  in  the  silence 
it  is  light. 

All  at  once  the  pond  is  alive  with  skaters,  its 
solitary  aspeft  transformed  by  this  merry  invasion. 
Boys  cutting  figure  eights  suggest  whirligigs. 
Myriad  black  figures,  clear  cut  in  the  pale  light, 
move  in  and  out  with  undulating  rhythm,  as  on  a 
surface  of  polished  steel.  The  pond,  now  more 
companionable  than  ever,  becomes  a  playground, 
and  we  never  so  much  as  reflect  upon  the  strange- 
ness of  it.  Something  there  is  in  this  unbending 
on  the  part  of  Nature  which  puts  us  in  a  good 
humor,  for  certainly  people  are  never  more  good- 
natured  than  on  the  ice.  Their  habitual  stiffness 


IN  THE  OPEN 

melts  away  as  readily  as  ice  melts  in  the  sun. 
They  experience  a  thaw  and  become  democratic. 

To  skate  over  meadows  and  into  inaccessible 
bogs  gives  one  a  taste  for  exploration.  It  is  a  new 
freedom  and  perhaps  the  next  thing  to  flying. 
Seen  through  the  clear  "  black "  ice,  familiar  ob- 
jedbs  have  an  added  interest;  the  pebbles  on  the 
bottom,  the  spagnum,  the  lily-pads,  all  give  the 
impression  of  being  severed  from  our  world,  though 
so  plainly  in  view.  The  skater  glides  in  and  out 
amongst  cassandra  and  andromeda,  clethra  and  black 
alders  —  wintry  jungles,  enlivened  only  by  red 
winterberries  —  where  in  summer  is  the  haunt  of 
the  rose  pogonia  and  the  white-fringed  orchis. 
Who  would  imagine  now  that  the  swamp  was 
capable  of  producing  anything  so  exquisite,  that  it 
held  beneath  the  ice  the  seeds  of  such  beauty  ? 

The  most  friendly  voice  in  Nature  is  the  song 
of  the  brook.  Not  the  wind  in  the  pines,  not  the 
voice  of  the  sea,  can  compare  with  this  for  true 
sociability.  These  are  always  somewhat  remote, 
somewhat  mystical  in  our  ears,  but  the  song  of 
the  brook  is  cheerfulness  itself.  Its  bonhomie  is 
irresistible.  It  gradually  prevails  over  any  whim 
and  wins  us  to  a  sociable  and  contented  mood. 

1 68 


]  I  LAUGHING  WATERS]  [" 


Though  the  world  may  seem  discordant  enough, 
there  is  always  this  wholesome  note. 

No  two  brooks  are  alike.  As  the  result  of  the 
chara&er  of  the  country  through  which  they  flow, 
they  impress  one  as  having  strongly  defined  per- 
sonalities. A  creek  flowing  sluggishly  through  the 
alluvial  districts  of  the  South  is  insipid  compared 
to  a  mountain  stream  in  New  England.  Your 
mountain  brook  is  a  strong,  salient  personality 
which  dominates  the  landscape.  It  sweeps  in  bold 
curves  about  the  base  of  cliffs,  and  contra&s  into 
a  mere  mill  race  cut  in  the  distorted  schist  and 
gneiss.  Its  suggestion  is  wholly  of  savage  strength, 
a  rude,  forceful  thing  of  the  wilderness;  its  song  a 
masterful  strain,  a  triumphant  chant  of  power. 
Again,  there  are  merry  little  streams  tinkling  in 
the  sunlight. 

In  cutting  down  its  channel,  the  brook  may 
reach  a  stratum  seemingly  richer  than  any  above, 
so  that  in  April  its  banks  become  a  garden.  While 
scarcely  a  flower  is  to  be  seen  on  the  hillsides,  the 
fertile  floor  of  the  ravine  is  carpeted  with  spurred 
violets,  groundnut  and  spring  beauties. 

One  such  as  this  falls  into  a  glen  over  a  little 
precipice,  spreading  itself  out  like  a  fine  veil  which 

169 


IN  THE  OPEN 

ceaselessly  undulates  in  the  breeze,  and  now  and 
again  floats  away  in  mist  ere  it  can  reach  the  pool 
below.  Under  the  overhanging  rock,  Alpine  wood- 
sia  and  cliff-brake  thickly  cluster,  while  on  narrow 
shelves  are  hanging  gardens  of  dicentra,  and  in  the 
crannies,  little  patches  of  mountain  saxifrage. 

Below  is  a  golden  sheen  where  the  spicebush 
is  in  flower,  and  a  shimmer  of  pale  green  about 
the  early  willows.  From  the  glen  comes  the  song 
of  the  ruby  kinglet,  bubbling  up  and  dying  away. 
Incomparably  wild,  it  seems  to  express  the  abandon 
of  a  spirit  ever  free.  All  the  while  the  com- 
panionable brook  gurgles  and  tinkles  its  reposeful 
melody,  and  the  white  veil  of  the  waterfall  undu- 
lates softly  in  its  dark  cavern.  The  air  is  full  of 
that  indescribable  suggestion  of  spring,  which  is 
like  hashish,  and  casts  a  glamor  over  the  world. 
Gradually  one  is  imbued  with  a  sylvan  conscious- 
ness and  attains  to  a  rapt  and  intimate  point  of 
view. 

It  is  curious,  as  one  follows  down  the  ravine,  to 
hear  the  different  voices.  The  brook  seems  as  if 
inhabited  by  a  number  of  spirits  throughout  its 
length,  some  whispering,  some  laughing,  others 
singing.  Not  only  are  the  voices  pitched  in  various 

170 


LAUGHING  WATERS]  [ 


keys,  but  the  quality  of  tone  differs  essentially. 
Some  are  loud  and  portentous;  others,  melodious, 
liquid  gurgles.  In  one  place  the  voice  implies  an 
intimate  and  confidential  mood,  so  gentle,  so  ex- 
quisite, that  the  full  import  of  the  musical  conver- 
sation is  felt  only  in  midstream, —  whispers  and 
murmurs  which  have  almost  a  ventriloquial  erfedt. 

Countless  bubbles  glide  down  the  current  and 
vanish  one  by  one.  Sunbeams  dance  over  the 
rapids  and  out  upon  the  pool,  and  then,  as  the 
sun  goes  under  a  cloud,  the  stream  as  quickly 
takes  on  a  somber  mood.  Presently  comes  the 
melodious  patter  of  rain-drops  on  the  ground,  an 
even,  sustained  note,  very  different  from  any  voice 
of  the  brook  as  it  dimples  and  answers  the  rain, 
one  soft  voice  replying  to  the  other.  Already  little 
pools  form  in  hollows  of  the  rock  and  reflect  light, 
so  that  the  face  of  Nature  is  perceptibly  brighter. 

Considering  this  aspedt  of  the  streams,  it  is  easy 
to  see  how  the  primitive  mind  came  to  personify 
them,  since  the  brooks  have  motion,  voice  and 
expression,  ripple  and  laugh  in  the  sunshine  and 
are  responsive  to  the  wind  and  the  sky.  They  are 
still  divinities  to  the  fisherman  with  whom  he 
comes  into  an  ever  closer  affiliation,  as  gentle  and 

171 


||  IN 

THE  OPEN 

poetic  as  he  may  be  qualified  to  enjoy.  The  mur- 
muring waters,  the  whispering  trees,  the  silver 
and  cupreous  gleams  of  trout  are  the  fa&s  with 
which  he  becomes  enamored,  while  he  loses 
affinity  with  the  world,  which  slips  into  the 
background. 


172 


THE  MOUNTAINS 


He  knew  the  mountains,  who  said,  "I  will  lift 
up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills  from  whence  cometh 
my  help" ;  knew  them  in  some  intimate,  spiritual 
way,  for  his  words  imply  a  noble  association  and 
companionship.  Wordsworth  understood  them  in 
this  way,  but  not  as  the  mountaineer  knows  them. 
They  are  ethereal  dream-mountains  the  poet  sees, 
rather  than  aclual  rock  and  soil. 

On  the  horizon  the  mountains  wrap  themselves 
in  mysterious  light  and  color  and  seem  invested 
with    certain    qualities   which    they  lose    near    at 
hand, —  as  a  cloud,  so  beautiful  an  object  floating 
in   the   heavens,  is   but   a  fog   bank   once  we  are 
enveloped  in  it.    Distance  does  adhially  lend  en-  9 
chantment.    The  range  beyond  has  always  some  > 
attraction  this  one  lacks.    In  truth,  mountains  are 
illusory  objects,  and,  to    the    most    matter-of-fact 
point   of  view,  are  something    more   than    rock. 
That  marvelous  purple  of  the  distant  hills,  assumed* 
as  an  imperial  robe,  slips  away  as  we  approach, 


IN  THE  OPEN 


and  we  find  them  dressed  in  plain  brown  home- 
spun. Never  do  we  as  much  as  touch  the  hem  of 
that  royal  mantle. 

A  symbol  of  the  unchangeable,  they  are  none 
the  less  marvelously  sensitive  to  the  play  of  light, 
and  thus  appear  to  vary  with  the  conditions  of  the 
atmosphere.  There  are  days  when  they  seem  to 
approach,  and  times  again  when  they  recede  and 
become  distant  and  nebulous.  This  magic-play 
of  light  proceeded  from  their  birth,  and  goes 
on  forever,  the  unceasing  illusion,  the  beautiful 
witchery. 

From  the  violet  shadows  of  their  bases  they 
rise  through  a  stratum  of  ethereal  blue  to  emerge 
glistening  white.  Now  they  are  savage  and  defiant 
in  their  somber  shadows,  ramparts  and  battlements ; 
again,  opalescent,  lying  like  cumulous  clouds  on 
the  horizon.  What  a  vast  bulk  is  yonder  spur, 
massy  and  ponderous  in  this  light,  but  tomorrow 
it  may  appear  immaterial  as  thistle-down  and  to 
hang  suspended  in  the  ambient  air.  In  the  morning 
the  crags  and  cliffs  stand  out  naked  and  dazzling 
on  the  great  rock  mass  of  the  peak;  yet  before 
night  every  detail  may  be  obliterated  and  the 
mountain  appear  a  lowering  mass,  dull  and  grim. 


||THE  MOUNTAINS] 

It  is  with  mountains  somewhat  as  it  is  with 
people  —  there  must  be  perspective  if  they  are  to 
appear  all  serene  and  beautiful.  In  the  distant 
chain  the  details  are  lost,  and  we  receive  a  single 
distinct  impression  of  serenity,  as  though  they 
stood  there  a  type  of  the  fixed  and  eternal.  But 
in  among  them  there  are  everywhere  signs  of  con- 
vulsion, everywhere  evidence  of  change  and  decay.1 
It  is  in  the  distance,  then,  that  the  poet  loves 
them  best,  as  a  beautiful  vision,  which  lures  and 
beckons  him.  It  is  to  these  he  lifts  his  eyes,  from 
these  he  receives  his  inspiration,  for  they  are 
ethereal  and  opalescent  and  play  upon  his  fancy, 
provoking  him  to  subtle  thoughts  of  the  Ideal, 
rose-colored  as  themselves. 

They  who  do  not  live  where  they  can  see  the 
mountains  miss  somewhat  in  their  lives,  as  do 
they  who  never  hear  the  sea.  It  would  seem  as 
though  one  or  the  other  were  essential  to  a  normal 
human  environment,  providing  that  changeful 
beauty  which  forever  stimulates  the  imagination. 
We  necessarily  lift  up  our  eyes  to  the  mountains 
with  some  corresponding  elevation  of  thought. 
Again,  from  those  desolate  heaps  of  granite  we 
receive  the  suggestion  of  something  immutable 

17S 


]  I  IN  THE  OPEN 


and  permanent  —  delusion  though  it  may  be. 
Whatever  convulsions  they  may  have  known  were 
birth  throes  and  growing  pains.  Venerable  beyond 
human  conception,  their  life  is  measured,  not  in 
years,  nor  yet  in  centuries,  but  in  epochs  and  eons 
of  time;  and  out  of  this  inconceivable  antiquity, 
with  its  tumultuous  youth,  has  come  repose  at 
last  —  a  serene  old  age. 

One  readily  understands  in  the  mountains  how 
the  old  myths  of  the  gods  and  giants  arose.  Why 
should  not  the  gods  have  dwelt  on  Olympus  — 
and  here  in  the  Rockies  as  well  ?  What  place 
more  fitting?  A  setting,  stern  and  heroic,  and  not 
altogether  hospitable  to  the  puny  race  of  man. 
There  are  places  of  such  sublimity  and  desolation, 
you  feel  you  have  looked  in  upon  Olympus  when 
the  gods  were  away,  and  that  any  moment  they 
may  return  with  their  thunderbolts.  Wandering 
alone  in  these  regions  is  like  an  excursion  into 
legendary  lore  —  and  one  would  better  wander 
alone,  for  in  our  deepest  moments  the  mountains 
are  company  enough. 

One  companion  you  may  have  —  should  have, 
in  the  mountains  —  a  horse,  a  kindly  and  sociable 
animal,  who  knows  your  foibles  as  you  know  his, 

176 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

and  is  willing  to  humor  them.  He  must  be  a  trail- 
horse,  sure-footed  and  not  finicky  about  fording 
mountain  streams.  If  you  do  not  come  into  some 
renewed  sense  of  freedom,  if  the  solitude  does 
not  speak  to  you,  if  you  do  not  become  better 
acquainted  with  yourself,  it  is  because  you  really 
have  not  surrendered  to  the  genius  of  the  hills  but 
have  come  preoccupied  with  other  and  lesser 
things.  Thoreau  did  not  so  greatly  exaggerate 
when  he  said  one  must  make  his  will  and  settle 
his  affairs  before  he  was  ready  to  walk. 

One   does  not   tire  of  sauntering  through   the 
mountains.    They  seem  always  to  invite.   Mystery 
lurks  in  the  ravines.    There  is  no  sound  but  ther 
distant   tinkle   of  a    cow-bell,   which   is    pleasant  < 
music.    Over  the  ranges  and  the  velvet  folds  of  \ 
the  mesa  the  lights  and  shadows  play  like  a  passing 
smile. 

Though  the  ideal  eludes  on  a  nearer  view,  we 
nevertheless  derive  some  larger  sense  of  freedom 
from  personal  contact  with  the  range.  The  foot 
must  know  the  trail;  and  this  association  yields 
that  which  no  road  can  ever  give  —  a  good  under- 
standing with  the  mountain  itself.  As  far  as  the 
eye  can  see,  neither  fence,  nor  house,  nor  road; 

177 


]  [  IN  THE  OPEN 


only  the  somber  forest,  the  naked  ledge.  While 
this  tramping  over  trails  hardens  the  muscles,  it 
toughens  also  the  sinews  of  the  mind.  One  has 
mountain  thoughts  as  well  as  mountain  air.  The 
single  drop  of  aboriginal  blood  tingles  in  the  veins, 
while  the  tendency  is  strong  to  revert  to  the  wild 
and  to  a  more  rude  and  savage  life.  There  is 
experienced  some  furtive  desire,  as  of  a  wild 
animal,  to  scurry  away  into  these  grim  ravines,  or 
to  leap  from  crag  to  crag  with  the  bighorn, — 
presumably  a  sort  of  mountain  madness,  which  is 
dispelled  on  the  descent  to  the  village. 

Who  can  hear  the  wild  song  of  the  ouzel  and 
not  feel  an  answering  thrill  ?  Perched  upon  a  rock 
in  the  midst  of  the  rapids,  he  is  the  incarnation 
of  all  that  is  untamed,  a  wild  spirit  of  the  moun- 
tain stream,  as  free  as  a  rain-drop  or  a  sUnbeam. 
How  solitary  he  is,  a  lone  little  bird,  flitting  from 
rock  to  rock  through  the  desolate  gorge,  like  some 
spirit  in  a  Stygian  world.  Yet  he  sings  continually 
as  he  takes  his  solitary  way  along  the  stream,  and 
bursts  of  melody,  so  eery  and  sylvan  as  to  fire  the 
imagination,  come  to  the  ear,  sounding  above  the 
roar  of  the  torrent.  Like  Orpheus,  he  seeks  in 
the  nether  world  of  that  wild  gorge  for  his 

178 


THE 

MOUNTAINS  ||                   | 

Eurydice,  now  dashing  through  the  rapids,  now 
peering  into  some  pool,  as  if  to  discover  her  fond 
image  in  its  depths,  and  calling  ever  to  lure  her 
thence  from  that  dark  retreat  up  into  the  world 
of  light  and  love.  This  bird,  more  than  all  others, 
embodies  the  wild.  In  him  the  spirit  of  the  moun- 
tain finds  a  voice. 

Here  we  make  the  acquaintance  of  the  rocks 
as  no  where  else.  One  discovers  their  individuality 
and  comes  to  feel  that  even  they  may  be  com- 
panionable. They  have  much  to  say  if  only  one 
can  hear  it;  but  like  the  aged,  their  conversation 
is  all  of  the  past.  The  foibles  of  their  youth  are 
still  to  be  traced  in  faulting  and  non-conformity. 
How  tumultuous  was  that  youth;  how  serene 
their  old  age !  Stratified  or  volcanic,  each  tells  its 
own  story.  The  sandstone  cliffs  speak  of  the  sea, 
which  preceded  them,  and  of  which  they  are  the 
sediment  merely.  Upon  that  shore  no  human  eye 
ever  looked,  and  yet  it  is  registered  here,  as  the 
ruins  of  Mitla  record  a  race  unknown  to  history. 
The  cliff  is  a  chapter  in  a  biography  written  before 
the  advent  of  man.  Long  after  the  sea  had  disap- 
peared, some  convulsions  upheaved  the  strata  and 
threw  them  on  end.  Here  and  there  in  the 

179 


IN  THE  OPEN 

canons  glimpses  are  to  be  had  of  the  granite  or 
porphyry  which  underlies  the  sandstone  —  the  very 
corner-stone  of  the  hills.  It  is  as  though  one  had 
come  upon  the  most  ancient  papyrus  of  the  world 
or  unearthed  the  first  Babylonian  inscription. 

It  seems  incredible  the  stream  should  have  sawed 
its  way  through  so  many  feet  of  rock  and  pro- 
duced the  canon.  Day  and  night  it  eats  its  way 
inward,  like  a  saw  cutting  to  the  heart  of  a  forest 
tree.  But  see  what  the  rain  will  do  —  so  gentle  a 
thing  as  the  falling  rain.  Together  they  have  hewn 
the  cliffs,  which  are  like  vast  rock  tombs  with 
their  Egyptian  massiveness.  A  filmy  cloud  floats 
down  the  gorge,  trailing  along  the  edge  of  the 
precipices,  an  intangible  and  shadowy  form,  spirit- 
like  and  ethereal,  receiving  the  rays  of  the  setting 
sun  and  becoming  golden  and  then  rose-colored, 
and  dissolving  away  at  last  into  the  invisible.  This 
fugitive,  shadowy  thing,  this  bit  of  mist,  is  the 
mountain  sculptor. 

The  rocks  were  the  prototype  of  the  temple,  as 
was  the  forest  of  the  Gothic  cathedral,  the  date- 
palm  of  the  Byzantine  dome.  But  there  worships 
here  only  the  canon-wren.  He  is  the  high  priest 
who  lifts  up  his  voice  in  these  rock  temples  —  a 

1 80 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

sweet  utterance  delivered  with  the  usual  abandon 
of  the  wrens. 

Above  the  cliffs,  on  the  precipitous  slopes,  is 
the  impress  of  still  another  agent.  The  ledge, 
smoothed  as  by  a  plane,  and  the  scattered  boulders 
amidst  the  dead  timber  and  small  aspens,  give  it 
an  appearance  of  extreme  desolation.  Here,  where 
now  the  Indian  paint-brush  glows  in  summer,  the 
glacier  crept  snail-like  down  the  mountain,  from 
its  cradle  in  some  cirque  above  the  forest.  Tim- 
ber-line is  the  frontier,  the  boundary  between  the 
verdant  world  and  the  land  of  snow  and  ice. 

It  was  the  glaciers  which  in  the  days  of  their 
strength  chiseled  the  lake  basins  every  one,  and 
began  the  great  canons  on  which  the  streams  have 
been  at  work  ever  since.  At  the  same  time  they 
laid  out  the  moraines,  like  so  many  parks,  where 
the  pines  and  the  spruce  have  planted  themselves. 
They  did  the  rough  work  and  prepared  the  great 
rock  masses  for  the  finer  work  of  the  rain  and 
frost  and  wind  —  as  the  stone-cutter  precedes  the 
sculptor. 

These  lakes  in  many  cases  became  the  glacial 
meadows  of  today,  which  are  like  jewels  set  in 
the  vast  matrix  of  rock.  Out  of  elemental  changes, 

181 


]  I  IN  THE  OPEN 


terrible  in  their  immensity,  came  some  of  the 
most  charming  of  all  wild  gardens, —  as  a  rainbow 
follows  a  thunder-storm.  These  serene  and  alto- 
gether beautiful  aspects  of  Nature  were  the 
outcome  of  tumult  and  passion  —  earthquakes,  ava- 
lanches, lava-flows,  glaciers,  and  now  these  idyllic 
meadows,  beloved  of  bees  and  blossoms. 

There  is  a  certain  canon  hereabout  which  is 
closed  abruptly  at  one  end  by  a  precipice,  over 
which  descends  a  considerable  stream.  This  fall 
is  a  thing  of  beauty,  and  so  holds  the  eye  that  few 
think  of  scaling  the  cliffs  to  see  what  may  be 
beyond.  But,  as  it  happens,  there  lies  above,  and 
sundered  from  the  world  beneath,  one  of  the  most 
delightful  little  valleys  in  the  Rockies  —  a  long, 
narrow  defile,  flanked  by  perpendicular  cliffs  of 
pink  and  red  and  buff  sandstone. 

All  day  the  black-headed  grosbeak  sings  in  the 
aspens,  dropping  from  one  reverie  into  another. 
You  may  hear  the  voice  of  the  green-tailed  towhee, 
and  the  canon-wren  singing  from  his  rock  temple. 
The  stream  winds  along  the  floor  of  the  little 
valley,  which  is  some  eight  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea,  now  through  quaking  aspens  and  now 
under  spruce,  and  its  voice  is  as  the  murmuring 
182 


1 

THE  MOUNTAINS 

i 

of  pines.  This  is  the  haunt  of  the  shooting-star 
and  the  Alpine  mertensia,  delicate  and  exquisite 
blossoms,  wooed  by  fugitive  sunbeams  and  by  the 
floating  mist;  which  dwell  in  a  subdued  and  tem- 
pered light  amidst  the  Alpine  silence,  as  in  some 
floral  cloister.  Such  are  the  rare  and  beautiful 
places  of  earth,  which  the  mountain  barriers 
defend  and  the  clouds  veil,  as  if  they  cherished 
here  the  last  vestige  of  the  fading  youth  and  inno- 
cence of  the  old  world. 

There  are  days  when  the  clouds  shut  down 
upon  the  little  valley,  veiling  it  from  mortal  eyes. 
The  cliffs  and  buttes  seem  to  float  in  air ;  the  trail 
becomes  a  path  to  the  clouds.  You  have  only  to 
go  up  on  some  ridge,  and  the  pinnacles,  looming 
in  the  fog,  appear  to  be  forlorn  rocks  in  mid- 
ocean.  It  is  the  isolation  again  of  the  sea  and  of 
the  desert. 

At  such  times  one  receives  impressions  from 
the  mountains  which  bring  to  mind  the  ocean, 
as  if  these  retained  memories  —  as  they  still  bear 
traces  —  of  the  waters  which  gave  them  birth. 
This  relation,  once  so  intimate,  is  now  sundered 
and  only  to  be  inferred.  Where  is  the  ancient 
sea  which  mothered  the  Rockies?  The  desert  is 

'83 


IN  THE  OPEN  [  [ 


its  vast  bed,  now  unoccupied.  It  vanished  forever, 
leaving  its  impress  upon  the  mountains.  And  now 
this  sea-child  is  in  its  dotage,  and  it  too  dwindles 
and  wanes  century  by  century.  But  the  fog  still 
recalls  the  mother-sea,  and  out  of  the  forgotten 
past  conjures  up  little  waves  to  dance  upon  a 
primordial  beach. 


184 


THE  FOREST 


One  who  is  accustomed  only  to  our  eastern 
woods  can  have  little  idea  of  the  true  forest  as  it 
occurs  in  the  Sierra  Nevada,  which  is  a  world  of 
itself,  as  distindl  from  any  idea  of  the  "  woods  "  as 
the  snow  peaks,  the  colossal  granite  domes  and 
the  great  canons  of  the  Sierra  are  different  from 
the  mild  topography  of  the  Berkshires. 

Here  is  a  forest  primeval  such  as  was  never 
known  east  of  the  Cascade,  not,  at  least,  since  that 
remote  period  when  the  sequoia  flourished  in 
Greenland.  Man  wanders,  a  mere  pygmy,  in  a  Brob- 
dingnagian  world  of  vast  columnar  trunks.  This 
is  the  true  home  of  the  great  conifers,  the  sequoia, 
silver  fir,  sugar-pine  and  Douglas  spruce, —  the 
magnificent  of  the  earth.  There  is  no  wilderness 
of  saplings  as  in  the  woods,  and  the  general  open- 
ness of  the  forest  is  remarkable,  so  that  one  has 
far-reaching  vistas  through  splendid  arches  and  is 
able  to  appreciate  the  size  and  character  of  indi- 
vidual trees. 

185 


IN  THE  OPEN  I  [ 


Distind:  from  all  others,  the  sequoias  are  a  race 
apart.  The  big  tree  and  the  redwood  of  the  Coast 
Range  are  the  only  surviving  members  of  that 
ancient  family,  the  giants  of  the  foreworld.  Their 
immense  trunks  might  be  the  fluted  columns  of 
some  noble  order  of  archite&ure,  surviving  its 
builders  like  the  marble  temples  of  Greece,- — 
columns  three  hundred  feet  high  and  thirty  feet 
through  at  the  base.  Such  a  vast  nave,  such  ma- 
jestic aisles,  such  sublime  spires,  only  the  forest 
cathedrals  know.  Symmetrical  silver  firs,  giant 
cedars  and  spruce  grow  side  by  side  with  sugar- 
pines  of  vast  and  irregular  outline,  whose  huge 
branches,  like  outstretched  arms,  hold  aloft  the 
splendid  cones  —  such  is  the  ancient  wood. 

It  is  doubtful  if  these  giant  conifers  are  really 
as  companionable  as  our  eastern  beeches  and  maples 
and  oaks.  The  company  is  almost  too  grandiose; 
their  dignity  is  overpowering.  One  could  never, 
for  instance,  form  such  a  pleasant  acquaintance 
with  a  great  sugar-pine  as  with  a  slender  white 
birch.  Fatherly  white  oaks  and  village  elms  seem 
to  ally  themselves  with  man  as  protecting  deities 
of  the  wood.  But  this  great  race  of  trees  has  little 
affinity  with  our  world.  Be  that  as  it  may,  there 

1 86 


1 

(THE  FOREST 

| 

is  perhaps  no  loftier  association  in  Nature  than 
contact  with  the  forest.  It  is  the  force  of  a  tre- 
mendous personality  —  calm,  inspiring,  majestic. 
Like  the  sea,  it  is  not  to  be  grasped  in  its  entirety, 
and  the  mind  responds  to  it,  as  some  giant  sugar- 
pine  to  the  wind.  These  sequoias,  which  may 
easily  be  from  two  to  four  thousand  years  old, 
have  seen  men  come  and  go  as  so  many  squirrels, 
or  as  bubbles  on  the  stream;  they  have  outlived 
empires,  and  may  again. 

As  the  forest  inspires  in  sensitive  minds  the 
religious  sentiment,  so  does  it  impose  upon  all 
alike,  silence.  Self-effacement  is  the  law.  Wild 
animals  merge  into  their  environment  and  have 
acquired  protective  coloration  through  force  of 
necessity.  The  Indian  has  come  to  imitate  them; 
it  has  become  second  nature  to  him  to  move 
stealthily,  to  stand  and  sit  immovable  for  long  at 
a  time,  to  speak  little.  To  the  woodsman,  silence 
is  more  congenial  than  speech ;  his  wood  life  has 
made  him  alert;  he  has  the  habit  of  listening,  and 
talk  interferes. 

Another  influence  is  for  sanity.  It  cannot  fail 
to  communicate  a  little  of  its  imperturbable  calm, 
that  stable  equilibrium  of  the  granite  ledge  and 


[|  IN  THE  OPEN 

the  great  tree  trunks.  There  being  none  of  the 
external  and  artificial  excitations  which  constantly 
play  on  the  mind  in  cities,  a  tremendous  force  of 
complex  suggestion  is  removed,  and  the  thought 
naturally  works  more  simply  and  directly.  The 
multiplicity  of  desires  lies  dormant.  Everything 
conspires  for  simplicity,  as  in  the  city  all  things 
are  in  conspiracy  against  it. 

A  certain  resourcefulness  is  the  portion  of  the 
woodsman,  a  little  of  the  independence  and  dex- 
terity of  the  Indian,  but  more  than  this,  an  intel- 
ledlual  and  spiritual  resourcefulness.  It  devolves 
upon  him  in  the  solitude  to  become  acquainted 
with  himself — to  be  his  own  friend.  A  sturdy 
content  grows  out  of  this  association  with  the 
forest.  He  does  not  require  to  be  amused.  It  does 
not  necessarily  promote  an  unsocial  state,  but  it 
does  make  him  independent  of  much  society. 
Thus  the  forest  has  its  finer  or  spiritual  influence. 

Even  greater  is  the  suggestion  of  primitive 
vigor.  The  display  of  vast  rude  strength  induces 
a  robust  state  of  mind  quite  as  readily  as  the  open- 
air  life  gives  appetite  and  sleep.  With  the  savage 
this  influence  is  dired:  and  may  almost  be  classed 
as  instindt.  With  the  refined  and  cultivated  mind 

188 


THE  FOREST 


it  must  first  pierce  the  outer  shell,  the  veneer,  and 
filter  into  the  subconscious  depths,  as  the  sunlight 
penetrates  the  forest  twilight  and  brings  to  life 
dormant  seeds  lying  there.  A  new  class  of  ideas 
comes  to  life.  The  seeds  of  thought  planted  long 
ago  in  the  nomadic  period  of  evolution  —  in  the 
hunter  stage  —  germinate  under  the  forest  influ- 
ence and  send  forth  shoots.  It  is  memory  —  the 
race-memory  —  coming  blindly  to  the  surface,  and 
amounts  to  a  reversion,  not  so  great,  however,  but 
it  may  be  wholesome.  We  speak  of  men  being 
animal  when  they  are  sensual  or  dissipated,  un- 
mindful that  animals  are  neither,  but  eminently 
sane,  rendering  a  complete  and  unconscious  obedi- 
ence to  the  laws  of  Nature.  Some  men  make  the 
mistake  of  trying  to  take  the  city  to  the  wilder- 
ness, and,  as  a  result,  get  neither  one  nor  the  other. 
The  forest  has  its  luxuries,  and  they  consist,  in  a 
measure,  of  freedom  from  those  things  considered 
luxuries  in  the  city. 

Here  in  the  Sierras  we  live  in  a  wickiup,  a  sort 
of  a  roofless  wigwam.  The  camp  overlooks  the 
forest  in  which  the  canons  and  ranges  are  as  folds 
and  wrinkles.  Neighbors  are  few,  for  animals 
conceal  themselves,  while  song-birds  are  not 

189 


||  IN  THE  OPEN 

properly  of  the  forest,  but  seek  the  clearing  and 
the  settlement.  An  Oregon  snowbird  has  her  nest 
near  by  and  comes  hopping  about  on  her  mar- 
keting expeditions.  A  pair  of  lazuli-finches  also 
live  on  the  edge  of  the  clearing,  and  the  male  is, 
perhaps,  the  most  beautiful  bird  in  the  forest.  His 
demure  little  mate  is  seldom  seen,  as  she  is  preoc- 
cupied with  her  domestic  cares,  but  he  constantly 
flits  about  in  the  chaparral,  where  he  gleams  in 
the  sunlight  like  a  jewel. 

One  other  neighbor  we  have,  an  Audubon  her- 
mit-thrush, which  might  be  a  voice  merely  —  like 
Echo  haunting  the  mountain  —  and  no  bird  at  all. 
He  appears  to  sing  in  the  twilight  only,  and  his 
song,  like  that  of  all  thrushes,  is  spiritual  and 
unworldly.  A  single  white  lily,  tall  and  branching, 
stands  near  the  camp,  and  day  after  day  opens  its 
ghostly  racemes  in  the  dusk  to  white  moths  which 
come  flitting  out  of  the  forest  like  winged  Psyches ; 
and  with  the  opening  of  the  spirit-like  flower  comes 
the  vesper  song  of  the  thrush. 

Night  in  the  forest  is  a  spell,  an  enchantment. 
It  descends  suddenly  and  envelopes  us  in  darkness, 
tangible  and  real.  The  wickiup  stands  at  the  edge 
of  a  little  clearing,  and,  as  we  roll  ourselves  in  our 

190 


]  I  THE  FOREST  |  [ 


blankets,  we  seem  to  float  in  inky  blackness,  while 
the  pines  are  like  beetling  cliffs  against  the  starlit 
heavens.  Darkness  and  light  confront  each  other; 
it  is  as  if  we  hovered  between  them  and  had  made 
our  camp  for  the  night  on  the  borderland.  But 
with  the  dawn,  that  luminous  world  has  vanished 
and  we  are  again  under  the  familiar  pines. 

One  is  impressed  most  by  the  wonderful  stillness 
of  the  night.  Not  only  is  the  world  blotted  out 
in  the  enveloping  darkness,  but  it  is  voiceless,  and 
there  prevails  absolute  silence.  Rarely  this  is 
broken  by  the  yapping  of  coyotes,  or  a  dry  twig 
snaps  sharply  under  the  foot  of  some  animal. 

Not  until  the  wind  rises  does  the  forest  recover 
its  voice.  During  the  day  there  is  always  music; 
it  is  as  constant  as  noise  in  the  city.  Impalpable 
currents  descend  from  the  empyrean  to  caress  only 
the  tops  of  the  tallest  pines,  coming  no  nearer  to 
earth  than  this,  and  while  all  is  silent  below  there 
arises  a  distant  chant  in  the  tree  tops,  which  have 
been  touched  by  an  invisible  hand  and  made  to 
respond  to  moods  of  the  sky.  Full  and  resonant, 
yet  with  that  muffled  quality  of  tone  which  makes 
it  appear  always  to  come  from  a  distance,  the 
rhythmic  force  of  this  chant  sways  one  like  the 

191 


IN  THE  OPEN 


vibrations  of  an  orchestra.  Starting  at  some  center, 
as  if  at  a  signal,  these  tremulous  waves  of  sound 
recede  farther  and  farther  into  the  forest  and  die 
away  in  a  sigh. 

Here  the  tendency  grows  on  one  to  wander  in 
the  early  morning  and  again  in  late  afternoon,  to 
become  crepuscular,  like  the  animals,  and  to  stay 
in  camp  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  Deer  do  not 
stir  abroad  in  the  heat,  nor  do  fish  bite,  nor  birds 
sing.  This  love  of  dawn  and  twilight  is  partly 
inspired  by  fear  of  man,  but  it  is  none  the  less 
natural.  At  daybreak  the  deer  go  down  the  canons 
to  the  salt-licks,  as  surreptitiously  as  nymphs  going 
to  bathe.  It  is  their  witching  hour,  as  midnight 
is  the  owls'. 

To  arise  at  dawn  should  be  an  occasion;  to 
make  it  usual  would  mean  the  sacrifice  of  the 
more  subtle  impressions,  the  mind  is  so  readily 
blunted  by  the  habitual. 

Like  a  black  mantle  the  great  forest  lies  over 
the  earth  as  I  roll  myself  in  my  blankets  beside 
the  fire.  That  little  flaring  light  appears  to  be  the 
only  one  in  this  dark  wilderness,  reclaiming  a 
minute  portion  of  space  and  making  it  habitable. 
Wherever  one  may  be  in  the  forest,  it  is  only 

192 


1 

THE  FOREST 

necessary  to  gather  a  few  dry  sticks  and  strike  a 
match.  The  signal  summons  the  genii,  servant  of 
the  woodsman.  More  properly  one  should  use  a 
flint,  or  rub  two  sticks  together.  He  allies  himself 
with  man  against  the  hosts  of  darkness  and  defies 
the  wilderness;  a  merry  fellow,  his  laugh  may  be 
heard  in  the  crackling  flames.  All  through  the 
night  he  entertains  with  his  merry  gossip  and  with 
pictures  he  shows  in  the  fire.  At  times  he  reveals 
his  own  glowing  face  in  the  embers,  but  quickly 
assumes  the  head  of  a  bear  or  a  lynx,  or  melts  away 
in  the  flames,  to  reappear  presently  in  another  spot. 
When  I  awake,  the  morning-star  hangs  low  in 
the  heavens  like  a  great  lamp,  its  light  an  infinitely 
pure  and  serene  radiance  with  no  suggestion  of 
heat  or  combustion,  made  to  appeal  to  some  higher 
vision.  A  heap  of  cold  gray  ashes  is  all  that  is  left 
of  the  fire,  in  the  center  a  single  glowing  spot, 
which  may  have  been  the  eye  of  the  genii  of  the 
night.  The  black  mantle  has  been  lifted,  and  the 
earth  is  illumined  by  a  faint  glow,  as  if  solely  by 
the  reflected  rays  of  that  planet.  Unspeakably  soft 
is  this  light,  the  forerunner  of  the  dawn,  in  which 
the  forest  is  bathed  and  from  which  one  derives  a 
peculiar  satisfaction. 


IN  THE  OPEN  I  [ 


Imperceptibly,  almost,  it  fades,  and  is  replaced 
by  one  of  a  different  quality  —  the  light  of  day  — 
which  creeps  over  the  world  until  at  length  one 
is  aware  that  that  other,  which  was  neither  of  the 
night  nor  of  the  day,  has  gone.  Long  pale  lines 
of  fog  and  fleecy  banks  of  clouds  now  evolve  upon 
the  horizon.  The  earth  remains  suffused  in  this 
cold  light,  which  fascinates  and  still  repels,  making 
the  ranges  look  distant  and  severe,  and  giving  to 
the  whole  face  of  Nature  an  unsympathetic  look. 
It  is  the  beauty  of  marble,  a  Gorgon  beauty,  which 
chills  the  heart.  In  that  scene  is  no  note  of  human 
passion.  Those  pale  clouds,  cold  and  gray  as  the 
ashes  of  the  fire,  seem  to  lure  to  some  beyond,  as 
if  they  would  draw  one  from  the  world  of  life 
and  warmth  to  some  region  of  cold  and  death. 

Presently  comes  a  faint  blush  in  the  sky  and 
over  the  hills,  a  new  warmth  of  light,  as  if  blood 
now  ran  in  those  marble  veins.  It  is  the  foreglow, 
which  is  to  the  sunrise  what  the  afterglow  is  to 
the  sunset.  Color  is  again  born  into  the  world, 
and  the  earth  is  once  more  alive  and  sympathetic. 
As  the  sun  rises,  dawn,  the  exquisite  dawn,  the 
most  ethereal  thing  that  mortal  eyes  shall  ever 
behold,  flees  away  into  the  uttermost  parts  of 

194 


THE  FOREST  || 

space.  The  mystical,  alluring  quality  slowly  dies, 
and  it  is  once  more  the  matter-of-fact  light  of  day. 
With  the  appearance  of  the  sun  these  subtle  im- 
pressions vanish,  like  a  dream  vague  and  unreal. 
Nature  reasserts  herself  in  the  robust  sense  of 
existence;  now  the  smell  of  frying  bacon,  the 
comforting  effect  of  the  morning  coffee  in  a  tin 
cup,  are  the  real  and  important  things.  Physical 
life  is  enough  in  itself — so  concentrated,  vigorous, 
aggressive  it  is.  The  mere  breathing,  seeing, 
tasting  are  more  in  themselves  than  is  possible 
under  other  conditions.  How  good  the  resiny 
odor  of  the  forest!  How  exhilarating  the  scene 
in  its  pure  savagery !  How  stimulating  the  morn- 
ing air !  How  the  stream  lures  as  I  get  down  the 
trout-rod,  and  climbing  out  on  a  sugar-pine  log 
cast  a  brown  hackle  on  the  swirling  glassy  flood ! 


THE  SEA 


The  sea  ever  baffles  description.  It  is  a  living 
thing,  pulsating  with  energy,  and,  possessed  of  a 
subtle  consciousness,  elusive  and  full  of  moods  — 
changeable  as  woman  and  as  incomprehensible. 
Now  it  is  tender  and  appealing;  again  distant  and 
cold.  Perhaps  it  is  because  of  its  essentially  femi- 
nine traits  that  it  so  beguiles.  Certainly  it  fasci- 
nates as  nothing  else  fascinates  in  Nature. 

There  is  what  may  be  called  a  sense  of  the  sea, 
which  is  indefinable.  No  lesser  body  of  water,  no 
other  asped:  of  Nature  affords  this.  It  is  in  the 
air,  like  a  touch  of  autumn,  and  we  know  it  as 
much  through  feeling  as  through  seeing.  The 
coast  is  saturated  for  some  distance  inland  with 
this  presence  of  the  sea,  much  as  the  beach  is 
soaked  with  salt  water.  It  is  music  and  poetry  to 
the  soul  and  as  elusive  as  they,  wrapping  us  in 
dreams  and  yielding  fugitive  glimpses  of  that  which 
we  may  never  grasp,  but  which  skirts,  like  a  beau- 
tiful phantom,  the  mind's  horizon.  Like  music, 

196 


||  THE  SEA 

i 

it  is  an  opiate,  and  unlocks  for  us  new  states  of 
mind  in  which  we  wander,  as  in  halls  of  alabaster 
and  mother-of-pearl,  but  where,  alas,  we  may  not 
linger.  We  can  as  readily  sound  the  ocean  as 
fathom  the  feelings  it  inspires.  It  is  too  deep  for 
thought.  As  often  as  the  sea  speaks  to  us  of  the 
birth  of  Venus  and  of  Joy,  so  also  does  it  remind 
f  of  Prometheus  bound  and  the  thrall  of  Nature. 

Who  can  recall  those  impressions  of  the  sea 
which  were  his  as  a  child  —  a  relish,  a  vividness, 
perhaps  never  experienced  in  after  life?  What 
wonderful  thing  was  the  pure  white  sand;  what 
fascinating  objects  the  sea-shells  —  and  the  boom 
of  the  surf,  what  thrilling  music !  No  longer  is  it 
that  simple  strain,  but  inwrought  with  hopes  and 
fears  and  memories.  The  children  on  the  beach 
play  in  an  ocean  of  their  own ;  we  cannot  put  foot 
on  their  shore,  try  as  we  will.  Sometimes,  as  the 
salty  fragrance  is  wafted  over  the  sands,  one  is  on 
the  point  of  regaining  that  lost  consciousness,  and 
then  it  eludes  and  is  gone.  Never  again  shall  we 
find  that  alluring  and  altogether  wonderful  sea 
upon  which  we  happened  in  childhood.  Yet  who 
knows  but  in  some  auspicious  moment  we  may 
come  upon  one  still  more  entrancing. 

197 


IN  THE  OPEN  || 

With  an  east  wind  the  sea  is  always  musical.  It 
breaks  forth  in  its  solemn  chant,  as  though  the 
wind  were  an  influence  that  awakened  memories 
of  the  immeasurable  past,  and  inspired  this  primi- 
tive song.  From  a  distance  it  comes  like  a  rhyth- 
mical murmur  upon  the  horizon,  and  it  is  strange 
how  this  sound  will  fall  upon  unheeding  ears,  and 
then  with  what  suddenness  one  becomes  aware  of 
it.  At  times  it  loses  its  rhythmical  character  and 
becomes  a  sort  of  recitative.  One  imagines  the 
venerable  sea  to  be  muttering  of  its  epic  past  —  to 
be  relating  that  wonderful  saga. 

Yesterday  the  sea  was  glass.  It  lay  tranquil  as 
if  never  again  could  its  surface  be  ruffled.  So 
indefinite  was  the  sky-line  it  was  difficult  to  tell 
which  was  sky  and  which  water, —  a  dream-ocean, 
a  charming  vision,  which  was  to  dissolve  like  a 
mirage  of  the  desert. 

This  morning  how  it  was  changed !  Up  from 
the  shore  came  a  muffled  and  ominous  growl.  As 
one  approached,  this  ceased,  and  there  was  instead 
the  spitting  and  hissing  of  little  waves  —  a  sound 
of  irritation  and  suppressed  anger.  The  sea  was 
leaden,  aggressive,  formidable.  It  was  as  if  some 
troubled  spirit  had  entered  there  —  it  was  possessed 

198 


THE  SEA 

of  a  devil.  This  unrest  is  savage  and  terrible  like 
that  of  a  caged  tiger.  The  eye  turns  with  relief 
to  the  imperturbable  rock,  which  seems  to  confine 
and  restrain  the  angry  waters.  The  granite  rests 
in  unalterable  calm,  sphinxlike,  on  the  edge  of  the 
watery  desert.  It  stands  for  the  constant  and 
enduring,  as  it  forever  confronts  the  inconstant 
and  changeful  sea.  They  are  two  opposing  forces  :-j 
the  sea  coy,  arch,  coquettish,  now  bewitching  and 
full  of,  her  beautiful  wiles,  now  disdainful  and 
imperious,  again  mad,  tempestuous,  hurling  herself 
in  her  wild  passion;  the  granite  grim,  massive, 
unconquerable. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  wind  is  blowing  fronfl 
the  north,  the  sky  has  cleared  and  the  sea  is 
sapphire,  dotted  with  whitecaps;  yesterday,  opal, 
this  morning  leaden,  and  later,  sapphire.  It  is  no 
longer  formidable,  rather  is  it  cold  and  distant. 
The  face  of  the  waters  is  a  peculiarly  pertinent 
figure  of  speech,  for  the  sea  is  as  a  face  reflecting 
all  moods.  In  the  glare  of  noonday,  ocean  and 
landscape  seem  to  discharge  themselves  of  feel- 
ing,—  that  is  to  say,  they  are  barren  to  the  eye 
and  unproductive  of  feeling  in  us.  But  in  the  at- 
mosphere of  sunset  and  twilight  they  are  again 

199 


IN  THE  OPEN  I  [ 


expressive.    The  quality  of  light  may  be  compared 
to  the  timbre  of  sound.   Sometimes  —  as  at  noon  — 
it  is  like  the  blare  of  brass,  and,  again,  it  has  the  x 
softness  of  wood-winds,  the  tenderness  of  violins 
and  cellos. 

The  receding  day  carries  with  it  the  disquieting 
influences,  and  night  exorcises  the  demons  of 
unrest.  They  scurry  away  with  the  sunset  clouds 
on  the  horizon  like  fleeing  witches.  As  if  in  obe- 
dience to  some  silent  command,  the  sea  becomes 
passive.  He  must  be  distraught  indeed  who  can 
look  at  it  now  without  coming  under  the  spell  of 
the  hour  —  the  serene  hour.  It  is  as  if  the  passion 
and  strife  of  life  had  been  succeeded  by  the  beau- 
tiful calm  of  death.  To  gaze  on  the  mute  and 
motionless  ocean  at  ebb-tide  is  to  be  inevitably 
inspired  to  reflection,  so  potent  is  the  suggestion 
of  repose.  Apparently  the  forces  of  Nature  have 
conspired  together  for  peace. 

Death  ?  Nay,  rather  ^transfiguration}  for  now  the 
sea  is  illumined  by  a  golden  radiance.  Stretches 
of  burnished  copper  and  molten  gold  merge  one 
into  the  other;  areas  again  of  liquid  silver,  and 
beyond,  the  vast  ethereal  blue.  Out  of  the  coves 
shadows  come  creeping  and  stealing  over  the  water, 

200 


]|THE  SEA 


silently  advancing  to  overwhelm  the  rose  and 
copper  and  gold,  while  these  recede  and  slip  out 
to  sea,  growing  fainter  and  fainter  until  they  are 
absorbed  in  the  all-pervading  dusk.  In  the  suc- 
ceeding darkness  one  beholds,  not  the  sea,  but  a 
I  vast  bottomless  pit,  Dantesque  and  terrible. 

Above  all  else  it  is  the  immense  vigor  of  the 
sea  which  appeals  to  us.  We  are  made  to  feel  the 
play  of  cosmic  forces.  The  long  stretch  of  rocky 
coast  is  rude  and  Titanic;  the  expanse  of  ocean 
suggests  that  chaos  from  which  the  earth  has 
gradually  been  redeemed.  The  waters  piling  them- 
selves up  are  as  elemental  and  chaotic  as  nebulae 
or  the  seething  envelopes  of  the  sun.  It  is  in- 
credible they  should  be  hitched  to  the  gentle 
moon,  and  should  follow  that  pale  phantom  like 
a  leashed  panther,  now  purring,  now  growling, 
but  obedient  always.  The  mountains  impress  one 
with  their  age,  the  sea  with  its  agelessness.  Here 
at  least  is  something  which  appears  superior  to 
Time.  It  is  no  more  youth  than  it  is  age  —  the 
formless,  without  beginning  and  without  end,  but 
always  that  superabundant  vigor,  power,  freedom. 

Denuded  woodland  and  disfigured  landscape 
bring  to  mind  that  iron  Necessity  which  it  is  not 

201 


IN  THE  OPEN 


pleasant  to  see  advertised.  But  the  sea  is  unim- 
proved. It  is  the  universal  solvent,  and  dissolves 
the  trivial,  the  commonplace,  the  mean,  and  gives 
an  heroic  cast  to  whatever  it  touches.  One  needs, 
however,  to  observe  it  from  the  shore  and  to  have 
that  vantage  which  is  derived  from  being  on  land. 
In  mid-ocean  it  is  too  entirely  dominant  —  there 
is  nothing  to  afford  contrast.  It  is  like  the  moon  — 
so  fair  at  a  distance,  such  desolation  upon  its  sur- 
face. One  can  be  alone  on  the  mountains  and  find 
them  friendly,  but  who  would  choose  to  be  alone 
in  mid-ocean?  There  is  a  sense  of  isolation,  a  dis- 
association,  as  if  one  had,  in  fa<5l,  severed  connec- 
tion with  earthly  affairs  altogether;  hour  after  hour 
and  day  after  day  the  same  inscrutable  desert  of 
water,  which  begins  everywhere  and  ends  nowhere. 

Yet  how  inviting  it  appears  when  the  glittering 
sunbeams  dance  on  a  gently  rippling  surface.  It 
seems  an  expression  of  irrepressible  gaiety  as  if  all 
the  joyousness  in  Nature  had  come  to  the  surface 
here.  The  twinkling  dance  of  the  innocent  waves  — 
who  can  recall  the  tragedies  now? 

The  gulls  appear  to  enjoy  some  favoritism,  as 
^though  they  were  kin  to  the  sea  —  its  very  own. 
To  them  it  is  altogether  friendly;  they  find  it 

202 


THE  SEA 

always  congenial.  Whether  the  breeze  blows  north 
or  south,  it  is  all  the  same.  In  the  last  gale  it  was 
next  to  impossible  to  keep  one's  feet  in  the  full 
force  of  the  wind,  but  the  gulls  sustained  them- 
srlves  with  ease.  Over  the  gray-green  sea  the 
Clouds  appeared  to  rest  like  a  cowl.  The  thunder 
of  the  waves  drowned  all  else  and  shut  one  off 
from  the  world;  consciousness  was  swallowed  up 
in  the  din  and  tumult.  In  vast  mountainous  billows 
the  swirling  waters  rushed  for  the  shore  and  dis- 
solved in  spray.  I  stood  in  the  lee  of  the  rocks7 
bracing  myself  against  the  gale  —  a  reed  shaken 
by  the  wind  —  and  saw  flocks  of  coots  riding  at 
ease  in  the  maelstrom  beyond.  Always  facing  the 
wind,  they  sank  into  the  troughs  and  rose  again, 
were  lost  to  view  as  the  crests  broke  over  them, 
and  reappeared  in  the  old  position.  Ships  would 
have  dragged  their  anchors  where  these  coots  rode 
at  ease,  anchored  by  heaven  knows  what  power,. 

Where  the  surf  broke  with  its  terrible  thunder, 
countless  crabs,  urchins,  starfish  and  whelk  reposed 
in  the  rockweed  and  Irish  moss.  Were  they  aware 
of  the  storm  ?  Did  the  anemones  shut  their  doors 
or  open  them  wider  in  view  of  a  feast  ? 

The  marvelous  pools  in  which  they  live  have 

203 


IN  THE  OPEN 

i 

no  resemblance  to  the  surface  of  the  sea,  but  sug- 
gest the  bottom  of  the  deep  —  limpid,  dark  and 
still.  Each  is  a  world  by  itself,  inhabited  by  a 
strange  order  of  beings :  dull  nomads,  which  drift 
with  the  waves,  or  cling,  they  know  not  how,  to 
something,  they  know  not  what.  If  there  is  any 
event  in  their  life  it  is  the  rise  of  the  tide.  In  all 
likelihood  they  do  not  know  our  day  and  night, 
are  not  impressed  by  these  phenomena;  but  the 
flood  is  their  day,  the  ebb  their  night.  Small 
whelk  stud  the  rich  background  of  sea-mosses  like 
precious  stones,  some  gamboge,  some  orange,  others 
white  as  marble  or  banded  with  black.  There  are 
colonies  of  sertularia  tinted  a  delicate  mauve,  soli- 
tary sea-urchins  of  heliotrope,  and  starfish,  some 
luminous  pink,  others  deep  rose-madder.  These 
hues  are  characteristic  of  sea  life,  as  of  lichens  and 
mushrooms  and  the  lower  orders  in  general;  not 
crude  colors,  red  and  blue,  but  delicate  gradations. 
Now  and  again  a  single  jellyfish,  stranded  by  the 
receding  tide,  a  spedral  diaphanous  creature, 
hovers  ghostlike  in  the  liquid  atmosphere  of  his 
strange  world.  It  is  all  of  an  antediluvian  and 
prehistoric  character,  associated  with  the  beginning 
of  things  —  with  an  age  of  fishes  rather  than  an  \ 
204 


THE  SEA  || 

age  of  man.    The   deathless  sea  takes  no  note  of  1 
the  flight  of  time ;  it  still  brings  forth  only  brood 
upon  brood  of  slimy,  goggle-eyed  things. 

What  a  harvest,  this  of  the  sea !  After  a  storm 
all  craft  put  out.  The  lobstermen  in  their  dories 
take  in  the  lobster-pots  and  replenish  the  bait, 
while  the  dory  rises  and  sinks  on  the  long  swells. 
Fleets  of  mackerel  boats  and  schooners  bound  for 
the  Banks  after  cod  and  haddock  creep  along  the 
horizon-line.  On  the  beach  men  rake  up  the 
Irish  moss,  flung  ashore  in  the  storm,  and  spread 
it  on  old  sails  to  bleach  in  the  sun.  Others  haul 
kelp  for  the  fields,  while  women  gather  driftwood. 
So  great  a  resource  is  the  ocean ;  so  many  gleaners 
there  are. 

The  sea  is  humanized  and  redeemed  somewhat 
by  the  presence  of  these  workers.  It  is  agreeable 
to  reflect  that  while  it  nourishes  them,  they  in 
turn  do  not  mar  it.  Man  communicates  the  char- 
after  of  his  mind  and  aims  to  the  landscape; 
enriches  it  by  his  labor  on  the  farm,  and  disfigures 
it  again  in  a  thousand  ways,  till  it  is  as  barren  and 
sordid  as  his  own  thoughts.  But  upon  the  deep 
he  makes  no  impression.  It  is  virgin  ever.  It 
overpowers  him  by  its  stern  music  —  lifts  him  for 

205 


IN  THE  OPEN 

a  time  a  little  above  the  sordid  and  commonplace. 
The  sailor  ashore  is  not  the  same  man  he  is  out 
there.  He  must  needs  have  courage,  for  he  must 
meet  the  sea.  Portuguese,  Swedes,  Finns  —  poor 
stuff  for  poems  in  their  sailor  boarding-houses 
ashore.  But  hear  how  they  face  the  winter  gales. 
Learn  the  actual  experience  which  makes  up  that 
life.  The  sea  invests  the  poorest,  meanest  man 
with  heroic  qualities.  That  is  his  stage;  there  he 
looms  large.  Oil-skins  and  sou* wester  are  but  his 
make-up. 

I  take  home  a  piece  of  driftwood,  for  no  ordi- 
nary fire,  but  to  kindle  the  imagination,  for  it  is 
saturated  with  memories  and  carries  with  it  the 
enchantment  of  the  sea.  To  light  this  is  to  set  in 
motion  a  sort  of  magic-play.  True  driftwood  has 
been  seasoned  by  the  waters  and  mellowed  by  the 
years.  Not  any  piece  of  a  lobster-pot,  or  pleasure 
yacht,  or,  for  that  matter,  of  any  modern  craft*  at 
all  is  driftwood.  It  must  have  come  from  the 
timber  of  a  vessel  built  in  the  olden  time  when 
copper  bolts  were  used,  so  that  the  wood  is  im- 
pregnated with  copper  salts.  That  is  merely  the 
chemistry  of  it.  The  wood  is  saturated  with  sun- 
shine and  moonlight  as  well,  with  the  storms  and 

206 


]|THE  SEA 


calms  of  the  sea  —  its  passions,  its  subtle  moods; 
more  than  this,  it  absorbed  of  the  human  life 
whose  destiny  was  involved  with  the  vessel  —  the 
tragedy,  the  woe.  It  had  two  lives  —  a  forest  life 
and  a  sea  life.  By  force  of  tragedy  alone  it  became 
driftwood.  Winter  and  summer  the  sea  sang  its 
brave  songs  over  the  boat  and  chanted  her  requiem 
at  last  as  she  lay  on  the  ledge.  This  fragment  drifted 
ashore  out  of  the  wreck  of  a  vessel,  out  of  the 
wreck  of  great  hopes,  out  of  the  passion  of  the  sea.  ' 
Driftwood,  then,  is  to  be  lighted  in  a  spirit  of 
reverence.  No  ordinary  blaze,  rather  is  it  an  altar 
fire  to  Poseidon,  to  whom  were  immolated  the 
victims;  to  Aphrodite  born  of  the  waves.  Rather \ 
is  it  the  funeral  pyre  of  a  sea-bird,  now  to  rise(/A 
again  from  its  ashes.  It  is  not  to  warm  the  hands, 
this  magic  sea-fire,  which  has  borrowed  the 
emerald  and  sapphire  and  azure  of  the  waters  and 
reflects  still  the  phosphorescent  gleam  which  lay 
in  the  wake  of  the  vessel,  but  to  kindle  some 
feeling  and  to  nurture  vague  dreams.  To  set  match 
to  this  pyre  is  to  invoke  the  spirit  of  the  deep,  to 
hear  the  crooning  of  some  distant  surf,  the  hissing 
of  the  fretful  spray;  to  conjure  up  again  the  won- 
drous opaline  sea. 

207 


IN  THE  OPEN  |  [ 


Somewhere  on  this  phantom  ocean  rides  a 
phantom  bark  with  all  sails  set,  which  reflect,  now 
a  rose-pink,  now  the  faintest  imaginable  golden 
sheen,  and  disappear  in  the  dusk.  Perchance 
there  flits  over  the  mind  a  haunting  recollection 
of  that  lost  sea  of  childhood  —  that  sea  of  virgin 
impressions  —  to  vanish  also  into  the  dusk  of 
oblivion. 


208 


INDEX 


Abdomen,  86,  95,  105. 

Acorns,  120,  142,  160,  161. 

Acquired  tendency,  97. 

Adder*  s-tongue,  20,  61,  67. 

iEolus,  64. 

Afterglow,  194. 

Age,  201. 

Agelessness,  201. 

Age  of  fishes,  204. 

Air-sac,  18,  19,  77. 

Alaska  sable,  1 50. 

Alders,  14,  20,  50,  ito,  162, 

164,  168. 

Alpine  woodsia,  67,  170. 
Alps,  154. 
Altar  fire,  207. 
Amanita,  115,  126. 
Amazon,  25. 
Aments,  14. 
Andromeda,  168. 
Anemones,  1,13,  20,  21,  59,  61, 

67,  203. 
Animals,  136-138,  142,  146,  187, 

189,  191,  192. 
Antennas,  52,  101,  103. 
Anthers,  78. 
Ant  hill,  94,  1 08. 
Ants,  4,  88,  91,  94-107,  109, 

in,  112,  145. 


Aphid,  100,  101,  1 12. 

Aphrodite,  207. 

Apis,  78. 

Apple,  wild,  148. 

April,  142,  169. 

Arachne,  78. 

Arbutus,  20,  60,  121. 

Arftic,  131. 

Arftic  Circle,  23. 

Armies,  102,  107,  in. 

Ash,  66,  1 24. 

Aspen,  7,  123. 

Aspens,  181,  182. 

Asters,  71,  122. 

August,  113,  114,  117,  134. 

Autumn,  20,  45,  51,  72,  92,  118, 

119,  122,  125,  134,  135,  144, 

152,  157,  166,  196. 
Audubon  hermit-thrush,  190. 
Avalanches,  182. 

Balsam,  3,  6,  57,  66,  68. 
Bamboos,  117. 
Banks,  the,  205. 
Barberry,  3,  58,  124. 
Bare  branches,  1 26. 
Bark,  157,  158. 
Barn-swallows,  26. 
Basalt,  59. 

209 


]  I  IN  THE  OPEN 


Battle,  102. 

Battlefield,  103. 

Baybeny,  3,  118,  127. 

Beach,  76,  132,  183,  196,  197, 

205. 

Bear,  193. 

Beech,  126,  156,  157,  186. 
Beechnuts,  145,  1 60. 
Bees,  30,  31,  51,  55-57*  60,  67, 

78-80,  82,  83,  89,  182. 
Beetles,  34,  35,  150. 
Bee-tree,  67. 
Beggar-ticks,  121. 
Bell  worts,  21,  62. 
Bent  grass,  57. 
Berkshires,  185. 
Berries,  113,  114,  126,  161. 
Bighorn,  178. 
Big  tree,  186. 
Billows,  203. 
Bindweed,  69. 
Birch,  12,  32,  33,  57,  90,  117, 

120,  123,  157,  158,  186. 
Black  alders,  168. 
Black-and-white  creepers,  39,  40. 
Black  ant,  91,  96,  102,  104-110. 
Blackberries,  2,  63,  75,  118,  123, 

148. 

Black  birch,  117,  158. 
Blackcap  raspberries,  146. 
Black  cherry,  158. 
Black  colonies,  4. 
Black-headed  grosbeak,  182. 
Black  oak,  157. 
Blacksnakes,  155. 
Black-throated  blue  warbler,  66. 


Black-throated  green  warblers,  40. 
Bloodroot,  20,  21,  60. 
Blueberry,  1 1,  12,  64,  1 13,  159. 
Bluebird,  I,  13,  14,  34,  41,  114, 

117. 

Blue-headed  vireo,  8. 
Bluets,  20,  57. 
Blue  violets,  20. 
Boat,  207. 
Bobolink,  24,  43. 
Bob- white,  24,  42,  70,  160-162. 

B°g>  56»  57.  I22>  *65>  i68- 

Bog-rush,  57. 

Bokhara,  I  26. 

Boleti,  1 1 6. 

Bombus,  78. 

Boulders,  6,  57,  91,94,  122,  127- 

135,  140,  181. 
Bouncing-bet,  56. 
Brakes,  122. 
Brazil,  24. 
Briers,  147,  148. 
Brook,  61,  138,  168-171. 
Broom -moss,  117. 
Brown  ants,  109,  1 1 1,  112. 
Brown  hackle,  195. 
Brush,  90. 
Bryum,  117. 
Buckwheat,  145. 
Bulldogs,  102. 
Bullfrogs,  1 1 4. 
Bumblebee,  67,  78,  80. 
Bunchberry,  67. 
Bunchberries,  113. 
Burdock,  59,63,  73. 
Bur-reeds,  152. 


2IO 


INDEX  [  [ 


Burrow,  1 6,  155. 
Burs,  121. 

Buttercup,  57. 
Buttercup  seed,  145. 
Butterflies,  55,  93. 
Butterfly- weed,  72. 
Butternut,  3,  66,  121. 
Buttes,  183. 

Button-bushes,  164,  165. 
Byroads,  71,  73. 

Caches,  125. 

Calms,  207. 

Camp,  189-192. 

Canada,  66,  130. 

Canada  thistle,  7  5 . 

Canada  violet,  62. 

Canons,  180-182,  185,  189,  192, 

Canon-wren,  180,  182. 

Capsules,  1 19. 

Captivity,  1 12. 

Cardinal,  47. 

Carolina  wren,  47, 

Carpenter-bees,  30. 

Carrot,  63,  66,  74. 

Cascade,  185. 

Cassandra,  168. 

Cat,  27. 

Catbird,  30,  44-46,  49. 

Catbrier,  118,  148. 

Caterpillars,  92,  93. 

Catkins,  I  3 . 

Cattails,  38,  150,  152. 

Cedar,  34. 

Cedars,  186. 

Cells,  82,  83. 


Cetraria,  159. 

Ceylon,  117. 

Chalcidfly,  82,  83,  92. 

Chant,  46,  47,  169,  191,  198. 

Chaos,  20 1 . 

Chaparral,  190. 

Checkerberry,  80. 

Cherry,  2,  3,  64,  66,  113,  158. 

Chestnut-bur,  121. 

Chestnuts,  121,  145. 

Chestnut  warbler,  26,  39. 

Chewink,  41. 

Chickadee,  41,  47,  158,  159, 

1 66. 

Chickory,  74. 
Chipmunk,  15,  136,  139,  140, 

144,  145,  155. 

Chipping-sparrow,  37,  38,  118. 
Chirping,  53. 
Christmas  fern,  158. 
Christmas  green,  158. 
Cicada,  50,  53. 
Cinnamon  fern,  122. 
Cinquefoil,  57. 
Cirque,  181. 
City,  1 89. 
Cladonia,  1 26,  I  59. 
Claw,  86. 
Clearing,  190. 
Clethra,  80,  148,  1 68. 
Cliff,  66,  67,  132,  169,  174, 

179-183. 
Cliff-brake,  170. 
Clintonia,  I,  57,  113,  114. 
Cloud,  173,  174,  180,  183,  194, 

200. 


211 


IN  THE  OPEN 

Clover,  57,  71. 

Club-mosses,  158. 

Coast  Range,  186. 

Cocoa-bean,  72. 

Cocoons,  93,  95,  96. 

Cod,  205. 

Colony,  94,  95,  97,  99,  102, 

107-111. 

Columbines,  21,  66,  67,  121. 
Column,  104-106,  no,  HI. 
Combat,  103. 
Companionship,  10,  173. 
Competition,  69. 
Cones,  125,  158,  162,  163, 

1 86. 

Conifers,  158,  185,  1 86. 
Coniferous,  141. 
Connecticut  Valley,  2 1 . 
Constellations,  130. 
Coon,  149. 
Coots,  124,  203. 
Copper  salts,  206. 
Co-operation,  98. 
Corridors,  95. 
Cotton-fields,  47. 
Cottontail,  126. 
Court  of  the  Windi,  163. 
Coves,  200. 
Cow-bell,  177. 
Cowbird,  36-38. 
Coyotes,  191. 
Crabs,  203. 
Cranberry-bog,  57. 
Crane's-bill,  65. 
Creek,  169. 
Creepen,  39,  159. 


Crest,  203. 

Crickets,  51,  52,  54,  72. 

Crop,  128. 

Crossbills,  24,  162,  163. 

Crow,  1 6,  17. 

Crystals,  133. 

Cuckoo,  31. 

Curlew,  23. 

Cyperus,  114. 

Daghestan,  126. 

Daisies,  59,  66. 

Dandelions,  70,  71,  131,  135 

Dawn,  45,47,  191-194. 

Daybreak,  192. 

Death-song,  55. 

Deep,  204,  205,  207. 

Deer,  138,  156,  192. 

Dell,  80. 

Desert,  131,  183,  198,  199. 

Deserters,  107. 

Devonian,  5. 

Dexterity,  188. 

Dicentra,  20,  59,  170. 

Dicksonia,  59,  122. 

Dodder,  69. 

Dog,  136. 

Dog-days,  87,  114,  122. 

Dogwood,  30,  58,  157. 

Dory,  205. 

Douglas  spruce,  185. 

Doves,  7. 

Downy  woodpecker,  159. 

Downy  yellow  violet*,  21. 

Driftwood,  205-207. 

Dromedary,  132. 


212 


(I  INDEX 

Drumming,  1 6. 
Dwarf-sumac,  80,  124. 

Earthquake,  182. 
Earth-spirit,  130. 
East  wind,  198. 
Ebb-tide,  200,  204. 
Echo,  190. 
Edible,  115. 

Eggs,  81,  82,  84,  85,91,  93,99, 
105,  no,  112,  121,  132,  160. 
Egypt,  131. 
Elder,  63. 

Elm,  20,  30,  163,  1 86. 
Elysian  fields,  7 1 . 
English  pheasant,  42. 
Epithalamium,  54. 
Erigonc,  88. 
Erythronium,  I,  20. 
Europe,  70. 
Eurydice,  179. 
Evolution,  97. 
Exodus,  101,  109,  1 10. 

Face  of  the  waters,  199. 
Fall,  151. 
Fall  dandelions,  7 1 . 
False  hellebore,  68. 
Farm,  128. 
Faulting,  179. 
Faun,  49,  126,  159. 
February,  140. 
Feeding-grounds,  152. 
Feldspar,  134. 
Fern,  57,  131,  158. 
Fern  moss,  68,  117. 


Fields,  22,  42,  43,  48,  57,  59, 
71,  72,  74,  76,  79,  115,  127- 
129,  205. 

Field -sparrow,  i,  43,  118. 

Filaments,  78. 

Finch,  1 8,  190. 

Fir,  185,  1 86. 

Fire,  192-194. 

Fireweed,  75. 

Fish,  77,  192. 

Fisherman,  171. 

Flight,  88,  98-100,  120. 

Flood,  204. 

Florida,  25. 

Fly,  78,  86. 

Flycatcher,  37,  119. 

Fog,  173,  183,  184,  194. 

Forest,  34,  42,  44,  56,  62,  65, 
78,  82,  100,  117,  136,  163, 
178,  181,  185,  187-193,  195. 

Forest  cathedrals,  1 86. 

Food  plant,  112. 

Foreglow,  194. 

Formica  pennsylvaniea,  102. 

Formicary,  97,  99. 

Fox,  148,  149,  156. 

Fox-sparrows,  16. 

Freedom,  112,  177,  201. 

Frogs,  18,  19,51,  114,  144,  155- 

Fossils,  131. 

Fronds,  159. 

Frost,  129,  135,  181. 

Frost-grapes,  2,  113. 

Fruit,  65,  72,  76. 

Fungus,  114,  147. 

Funeral  pyre,  207. 

213 


IN  THE  OPEN 


Gale,  203. 

Galleries,  95,  96. 

Garden,  56,  58,  59,  65,  67,  69, 

70,  169,  170. 
Garden  escapes,  56. 
Gentians,  114. 
Glacial  times,  1 30. 
Glacier,  129,  131,  133,  135, 

181,  182. 
Gleaners,  205. 
Glen,  138-140,  143,  150,  151, 

169,  170. 
Gneiss,  169. 

Goldenrod,  71,  78,  80,  122. 
Goldfinch,  162. 
Gold  thread,  26,  63. 
Gorge,  80,  178,  1 80. 
Granite,  6,  59,  60,  130,  132, 

i34>  !35»  i59>  J75»  l8o> 

187,  199. 

Granite  domes,  185. 
Grape,  52,  126. 
Grass,  57,64,65,70,  71,  76, 

87,  108,  131,  139. 
Grasshoppers,  54,  145,  155. 
Grass  roots,  152. 
Grass  seed,  145. 
Gray  squirrels,  120,  139,  140- 

142. 

Greece,  186. 
Greenland,  129,  185. 
Green-tailed  towhee,  182. 
Grosbeak,  47,  182. 
Groundnut,  21,  169. 
Ground-pine,  158. 
Grouse,  24,  156. 


Grove,  17. 
Grubs,  92,  121. 
Gulls,  202,  203. 

Hackle,  195. 

Haddock,  205. 

Hair-cap  moss,  12,  57,  117,  119. 

Hardwoods,  30. 

Hawk,  34,  42,  161. 

Hawk  weed,  28. 

Hay-scented  fern,  131. 

Hegira,  89. 

Hemlocks,  56,  81,  126,  140. 

Hepatica,  20,  60,  1 29. 

Hermit-thrush,  8,  16,  43,  44, 

190. 

Hickory,  7,  121,  123,  124,  128. 
Highhole,  15,  1 6. 
Highroads,  73. 
Highways,  56,  100. 
Hillocks,  59. 
Hills,  94,  109,  167,  173,  177, 

1 80,  194. 
Himalaya,  117. 
Hive,  80. 
Home-trees,  30. 
Honey  bees,  67,  79,  80. 
Hop-hornbeam,  119,  157. 
Horse,  131,  177. 
Horsetails,  I  2. 
Host,  93. 
Houseleek,  77. 
House-sparrow,  3  I . 
House- wren,  30. 
Hound,  143. 
Huber,  112. 


2I4 


]  I  INDEX  I  [ 


Huckleberries,  26,  99,  123,  145. 

Humming-bird,  28,  29,  67. 

Humus,  125. 

Hunter  stage,  189. 

Hunters,  102. 

Hunting  expedition,  1 10. 

Hunting-ground,  1 1 1 . 

Huts,  muskrat,  I  50-1  52. 

Hyla,  18-20,  51. 

Ice,  129,  130,  151,  152,  155, 

162,  167,  168,  181. 
Ichneumons,  93. 
Icicles,  135,  167. 
Immigrants,  70. 
Independence,  188. 
Indian,  187,  188. 
Indian  paint-brush,  I  8  I . 
Indian-pipe,  80,  81. 
Indian  summer,  88,  126. 
Instinft,  1 88. 
Irish  moss,  203,  205. 
Iron  weed,  73. 
Invasion,  104. 

Jack-in-the-pulph,  62. 

Java,  117. 

Jaws,  86,  91,  103,  142. 

Jay,  45,  120,  160,  161. 

Jellyfish,  204. 

Jimson-weed,  73. 

Joepye-weed,  73,  122. 

Juncos,  162. 

June,  161. 

Jungle,  117,  130,  131,  1 68. 

Juniper,  127. 


Kelp,  205. 

Kidnapping,  107. 

Kingfisher,  32. 

Kinglet,  i,  5,  48,  49,  159,  170. 

Laborers,  108. 

Lady's-slipper,  I. 

Lake,  75,  181. 

Lake  basins,  1 8 1 . 

Lance-leaved  violets,  2 1 . 

Larvae,  82,83,105,106,1 10, 121 

Laurel,  59. 

Lava,  59. 

Lava-flow,  182. 

Lazuli- finch,  190. 

Leaf  bud,  160. 

Least  flycatcher,  37. 

Ledge,  5,  6,  31,  33,  80,  129, 

132,  134,  159,  164,  178, 

181,  187,207. 
Leopard-frog,  19. 
Lichens,  6,  26,  57,  117,  127, 

I33>  *34>  '59>  2°4- 
Lily,  61,  190. 
Lily-pads,  114,  166,  168. 
Limestone,  59. 
Lobstermen,  205. 
Lobster-pots,  205,  206. 
Locusts,  51,  52. 
Long-spurred  violets,  20. 
Loon,  48. 

Love-song,  18,  44,  45,  50. 
Lubbock,  112. 
Lumbermen,  163. 
Luster,  158. 
Lynx,  193. 

215 


IN  THE  OPEN 

Mackerel  boats,  205. 

Magnolia  warbler,  66. 

Mallow,  122. 

Mandrake,  I. 

Mango,  72. 

Maple,  19,  20,  26,  45,  59,  66, 

IOI,   117,   I2O,   124-126, 

134,  135,  157,  186. 
Maple-leaved  viburnum,  1 24. 
Marble,  134. 
Marriage  flight,  98. 
Marshes,  122. 
Marsh -marigold,  20. 
Martin,  22. 

Maryland  yellow-throat,  37. 
Massachusetts,  21. 
Mastodon,  121. 
Meadow-ants,  102. 
Meadow-lark,  I. 
Meadow-mouse,  150. 
Meadows,  43,  56,  67,  168,  182. 
Meadow  sweet,  80. 
Medeola,  62. 
Mertensia,  183. 
Mesa,  177. 
Mica,  134. 
Mice,  139. 
Milking,  101. 
Milkweeds,  72. 
Mink,  139,  140,  142,  149, 

151. 

Minstrelsy,  48. 
Mint,  i. 
Mirage,  198. 

Mist,  75,  76,  170,  1 80,  183. 
Mitchella,  i  26. 

2l6 


Miterworts,  21,  32. 

Mitla,  179. 

Mixed  flocks,  8. 

Mniums,  117. 

Mocking-bird,  49. 

Mole,  150. 

Mollusks,  23. 

Monkey,  121. 

Moon,  129,  201,  202. 

Moosewood,  157. 

Moraine,  59,  130,  181. 

Morning-star,  193. 

Mosses,  12,  57,  68,  82,  116, 

i'7>  134- 
Mother  ants,  98. 
Moths,  93,  190. 
Mountain-ash,  66. 
Mountain-goat,  100. 
Mountain-holly,  113. 
Mountain-maple,  66. 
Mountains,  56-58,  65,  66,  68, 

119,  164,  173-177,  i?9>  l8 

183,   184,   190,  2OI,  2O2. 

Mountain  stream,  169,  177, 
•      178. 

Mountain  thoughts,  178. 
Mouse,  35,  1 19. 
Mud-dauber,  84. 
Mullein,  63,  74. 
Mushrooms,  114-116,  204. 
Muskrats,  150-152. 
Myrtle  warbler,  66. 

Natural  history,  97. 

Nebulae,  201. 

Negroes,  104,  105,  107,  in. 


INDEX 

| 

Nest,  26-29,  3!-34>  36-38»  41* 
45,  66,  84,  95,  96,  102,  104- 
in,  190. 

New  England,  6,  1 1,  127,  130, 
169. 

New  Jersey,  2 1 . 

New  York,  130. 

Night,  190,  200. 

Non-conformity,  179. 

North,  127. 

November,  152. 

Nuthatch,  40,  159. 

Nuts,  142. 

Nymph,  126,  157,  159,  192. 

Oaks,  5,  7,8,  58,  89,  120,  126, 

154,  157,  159,  1 86. 
Ocean,  183,  197,  199-201,  205, 

207. 

Oftober,  114,  123,  166. 
Oil-skins,  206. 
Olympus,  176. 
Opal,  199. 
Open,  the,  153,  1 66. 
Orache,  77. 
Orchards,  30,  34,  71. 
Orchis,  1 6 8. 
Oregon  snowbird,  190. 
Orinoco,  25. 
Oriole,  5,  25,  30,  117. 
Ornithologist,  118. 
Orphean  strain,  119. 
Orpheus,  178. 
Osmunda,  13,  123,  124. 
Outlaws,  148. 
Ouzel,  178. 


Owl,  27,  31,  34,  35,  148,  192. 

Paint-brush,  181. 

Painted  trillium,  62. 

Paleozoic  reptiles,  131. 

Panther,  201. 

Pappus,  38,  75. 

Papyrus,  1 80. 

Parasite,  157. 

Parmelia,  57,  133,  159. 

Parnassus,  1 19. 

Partridgeberries,  160. 

Parula  warbler,  8. 

Pastoral  stage,  102. 

Pasture,  15,  22,  25,  56-58,  64, 

72-74,  76,88,  113,  127, 

128,  135,  155. 
Pasture  mushroom,  115. 
Pasture  stones,  57,  94,  118,  127, 

128,  131,  132,  134. 
Patagonia,  23. 
Peak,  174,  185. 
Peat-moss,  117. 
Pebbles,  132. 
Pedata  violets,  60. 
Persia,  154. 
Personality,  43. 
Petal,  130,  167. 
Pewees,  26,  46,  50,  1 18,  119. 
Pheasant,  42. 
Phoebe,  1 8,  31,  56,  1 19. 
Pickerel-frogs,  114. 
Pickerel-weed,  74. 
Pignut,  142. 
Pigweed,  69. 
Pileus,  114. 


217 


IN  THE  OPEN)  I" 


Pine,  5,  7,  9,  i?,  28,  30,  40,  65, 
78,  123,  125,  142,  154,  158, 
162-164,  166,  168,  181, 
183,  185-187,  191. 

Pine-needles,  7,  126,  147,  153. 

Pine-siskins,  162. 

Pine- warbler,  40. 

Pinnae,  I  59. 

Pipes  of  Pan,  48. 

Piping,  1 8. 

Pipsissewa,  80. 

Pistillate,  79. 

Pitcher-plant,  13. 

Pitch-pine,  28,  166. 

Planets,  132. 

Plantain,  64. 

Plant-fiber,  26. 

Planting,  65. 

Plant  life,  69. 

Plover,  22,  24. 

Pod,  72,  73,  75. 

Poison-ivy,  123,  124. 

Poison  sumac,  68. 

Poke  weed,  72. 

Pollen,  14,  65,  71,  79,  8 1,  119. 

Pollen-basket,  79. 

Pollen -bearing,  64. 

Pollen-grains,  79. 

Polypoms,  57. 

Polypody,  159. 

Pond,  19,  74,  124,  148,  150- 
152,  162,  164-167. 

Pool,  165,  167,  170,  171,  179, 
203. 

Poplar,  20. 

Porphyry,  180. 

218 


Porters,  108. 

Poseidon,  207. 

Poverty -grass,  76. 

Prairie,  65. 

Precipice,  169,  180,  182. 

Protective  coloration,  146,  187. 

Puffballs,  n  6,  128. 

Pumpkins,  79. 

Pupa,  82,  83,  95,  96,  104-106, 

108-1 1 1. 
Pupa-cases,  95. 
Purple  finch,  18. 
Purslane,  69. 
Pussy-willows,  13. 

Queen  bumble-bee,  80,  81. 
Queen  mother,  82. 
Queens,  98,  99,  105,  108. 
Quartz,  134. 

Rabbit,  136,  139,  145-149. 

Racemes,  190. 

Ragweed,  69,  70,  155,  161. 

Raid,  104,  106-109. 

Rainbow,  182. 

Rain,  130. 

Range,  173,  177,  189,  194. 

Rapids,  171,  178,  179. 

Raspberries,  146. 

Ravine,  66,  123,  169,  170,  177, 

178. 

Red  ants,  4,  102,  104-110,  112. 
Red  cherry,  66. 
Red  clover,  71. 

Redeye,  37,  50,  62,  118,  119. 
Red  maple,  20,  I  26. 


]  I  INDEX  1 1" 


Red  owl,  34. 

Redpolls,  24,  162. 

Red-shouldered  hawk,  1 6 1 . 

Red  squirrel,  125,  139-141. 

Redtop,  64. 

Redwing,  15,  31. 

Redwood,  186. 

Reindeer  lichens,  57. 

Reptiles,  132. 

Requiem,  54,  207. 

Resourcefulness,  188. 

Reverie,  72,  182. 

Ribbon-snake,  157. 

Ripple  marks, '5. 

Roads,  76. 

Robin,  4,  15,  34,  44-46,  143. 

Rock-brake,  67. 

Rockies,  176,  182,  183. 

Rock-maple,  59. 

Rocks,  179,  1 80,  183,  199,  203, 

Rockweed,  77,  203. 

Rome,  131. 

Rose,  31,  59,63,  64,  72,  1 1 8, 

130,  131,  148. 
Rose-breasted  grosbeak,  47. 
Rose-mallow,  122. 
Rose  pogonia,  168. 
Round-leaved  spurge,  76. 
Ruby  kinglet,  48,  170. 
Rue-anemone,  20. 
Ruffed  grouse,  24,  156. 
Runways,  148. 
Rush,  57. 
Russula,  1 1 6. 

Saga,  198. 


Sailor,  206. 

Salt-licks,  192. 

Sand,  197. 

Sandpiper,  124. 

Sandstone,  59,  179,  1 80,  182. 

Sand-wasp,  89. 

Sanity,  187. 

Saplings,  154,  185. 

Sapphire,  199. 

Sapsucker,  33. 

Sassafras,  3. 

Satyr,  49,  I  59. 

Savage,  188. 

Savin,  113,  127. 

Saxifrage,  20,  170. 

Scapes,  7 1 . 

Scarlet  oak,  I  26. 

Schist,  169. 

Schooners,  205. 

Scorpions,  95. 

Sculpins,  77. 

Sea,  77,  132,  133,  164,  165, 

168,  175,  179,  182,  183,  187, 

196-208. 
Sea-bird,  207. 
Sea-fire,  207. 
Sea  life,  204. 
Sea-mosses,  204. 
Sea-shells,  77,  197. 
Sea-urchins,  203,  204. 
Sedge,  150,  152. 
Sedge  roots,  152. 
Sediment,  179. 
Seed,  64,  65,  70,  75,  119,  120, 

125,  135,  145,  161-163. 
Seed-carrying,  64. 

219 


IN  THE  OPEN 

Seedlings,  121. 

Self-effacement,  187. 

Sense  of  the  sea,  1 96. 

Sensitive  fern,  57. 

September,  118,  122. 

Sequoia,  185-187. 

Serpent,  106. 

Sertularia,  204. 

Shadbush,  64,  123,  124. 

Shale,  5. 

Shelf  fungus,  114,  146. 

Shellbark,  157. 

Shield-fern,  159. 

Shinleaf,  80. 

Shooting-star,  183. 

Shore,  198,  202,  203. 

Shrews,  139. 

Shrilling,  19,  53. 

Sierra  Nevada,  185,  189. 

Silence,  187,  191. 

Silver  fir,  185,  186. 

Silver-rod,  113. 

Simplicity,  188. 

Sky,  165,  171,  191,  194,  198, 

199. 

Skunk,  149,  155. 
Skunk-cabbage,  n,  122. 
Slave-making  ant,  112. 
Slavery,  106. 
Slaves,  104,  108-112. 
Smilax,  12,  30,  113,  117. 
Snakes,  143,  155. 
Snipe,  22. 
Snow,  70,  140,  141,  147,  152 

156,  1 60,  161,  1 66,  181. 
Snowbird,  27,  66,  190. 


Snow-buntings,  22,  24. 

Snowflakes,  8,  22,  133,  153,  165. 

Snow-storm,  153. 

Socialism,  96. 

Social  wasp,  86,  89. 

Solitary  wasps,  89. 

Solitude,  177,  1 8 8. 

Solomon* s-seal,  62. 

Song,  18-20,  31,  32,  41-43,  45- 
51*  53>  55>67>  H9>  I38>i6i, 
163,  168-170,  178,  190,  198. 

Song-birds,  189. 

Song-sparrows,  17,  31,  45,  50. 

Sorrel,  57. 

Sou'wester,  206. 

Spagnum,  68,  122,  168. 

Sparrows,  1 6,  17,  31,  37,  38, 

42>43>45>  46>  5°*  7°.  n8, 

155,  162. 
Spatter-docks,  152. 
Speedwells,  57. 
Spicebush,  58,  170. 
Spider,  29,  51,  65,  ^8,  83-89, 

117- 

Spider's  egg,  160. 

Spider-web,  64,  84. 

Spinnerets,  85,  88,  89. 

Spinning,  84,  88,  93. 

Spores,  1 1 9. 

Spray,  203,  207. 

Spring,  11-14,  17,  21,  24,45, 

50,  51,  68,  112,  114,  119, 

144,  157,  170. 
Spring  beauty,  I,  20,  6 1,  169. 
Spruce,  6,  32,  57,  66,  67,  181, 

182,  185,  186. 


22O 


INDEX 

Spur,  174. 

Spurge,  76. 

Spurred  violets,  169. 

Squirrels,  42,  120,  121,  125,  139- 

142,  156,  187. 
Stag-horn  sumac,  123. 
Stamens,  78. 
Starfish,  203,  204. 
Star  of  Bethlehem,  56. 
Stars,  128. 
Stinging  ants,  95. 
St.-JohnVwort,  63,  114,  149. 
Storm,  205,  206. 
Strand,  85,  89. 
Strata,  179. 
Strawberries,  57. 
Stream,  48-50,  67,  169,  170, 

177,  178,  180-182,  187,  195. 
Stridulating,  54. 
Stumps,  114. 
Sugar-maple,  124. 
Sugar-pine,  185-187,  195. 
Sumac,  3,  15,  68,  80,  82,  83,  88, 

123,  124. 
Summer,  60,  66,  67,  70,  71,  126, 

152,  154,  168,  181,  207. 
Sunflowers,  59,  122. 
Sunrise,  194. 
Sunset,  194,  199. 
Surf,  7,  203,  207. 
Swallows,  19,  25,  26. 
Swamp  milkweed,  72. 
Swamps,  13,  15,  18-20,  31,  40, 

45,47,68,73,  113,  114, 

123,  125,  126,  134,  168. 
Swan-song,  163. 


Swarming,  98. 
Sweetbrier,  i. 
Sweet  fern,  I  27. 
Swift,  22,  30. 
Sylvan,  49. 

Tabriz,  126. 
Tansy,  74. 
Temperament,  43. 
Temperate  zone,  131. 
Tendency,  97. 
Tertiary  animals,  131. 
Thaw,  135,  151,  168. 
Thicket,  16,  75,  118,  122. 
Thistle-down,  30,  64. 
Thistles,  59,  64,  74,  75,  135. 
Thorax,  86,  95,  102,  105. 
Thoreau,  177. 
Thrasher,  49. 
Thread,  84,  87,  88. 
Thrushes,  8,  9,  16,  30,  42-46, 

48,  51,62,  190. 
Thunder-storm,  182. 
Tide,  204. 
Tiger,  199. 
Timber,  181. 
Timbre,  200. 
Timothy,  64. 
Toads,  19,  50,  132,  155. 
Towhee,  182. 
Track,  148,  156,  161,  162. 
Trail,  177,  178,  183. 
Trail-horse,  177. 
Transmutations,  60. 
Tree  ferns,  117. 
Tree-sparrows,  70,  155,  162. 

221 


IN  THE  OPEN 

Tree-swallows,  19,  25. 

Tree-toads,  50,  52. 

Trillium,  62. 

Trough,  203. 

Trout,  172. 

Trout-rod,  195. 

Trunk,  141,  158,  185,  186,  188. 

Tufted  titmouse,  47. 

Tulip  trees,  58. 

Tupelo,  113,  124,  125,  134. 

Twilight,  192,  199. 

Twisted-stalk,  62. 

Twittering,  19. 

Undergrowth,  59. 
Upholsterer-bee,  82. 
Urchins,  203,  204. 

Veery,  44. 

Vespa,  78. 

Vessel,  206,  207. 

Vesuvius,  58. 

Viburnum,  113,1  24. 

Violets,  13,  20,  21,  26,  57,  59, 

60,  62,  129,  169. 
Vireos,  5,  8,  31,  36,  37,  93. 
Virginia  creeper,  3,  71,  92,  123. 
Viscid  drops,  86. 
Volcano,  58. 

Wake-robins,  67. 

Warblers,  5,  8,  21,  25-27,  31, 

37 >  39>4°»66,  93,  118. 
Warriors,  102,  103,  108,  in. 
Wasps,  55,  78,  84-86,  89-91,  93. 
Waterfall,  67,  1 70. 


Water- thrush,  48. 

Waves,  76,  184,  198,  202-204, 

207. 

Weasels,  27,  102,  136,  143,  149. 
Web,  64,  84,  85,  87. 
Weeds,  69,  70,  72-74,  76,  77. 
Weevil,  121. 
Whelk,  203,  204. 
White  birch,  57,  90,  157,  186. 
Whitecaps,  199. 
White-fringed  orchis,  168. 
White  oak,  8,  120,  157,  186. 
White  pines,  7,  125. 
White  violets,  21,  26. 
Wickiup,  189,  190. 
Wigwam,  189. 
Wild  animals,  136. 
Wild  apple,  148. 
Wild  gardens,  56,  58,  65,  182. 
Wild  geese,  23. 
Wilderness,  34,  43,  48,  too,  142, 

169,  189,  193. 
Wild,  the,  137,  147,  179. 
Willows,  13,  20,  34,  64,  78,  148, 

170. 
Winds,  49,  63-65,  71,78,  84, 

87,  89,  110,  117,  119,  125, 

J35>  !53>  !56>  l65>  l66,  J68, 
171,  181,  191,  198,  199,  203. 

Wings,  88,  89,  98,  99,  105,  1 1  2, 
120,  125,  163. 

Winter,  n,  13,  14,  17,  22,  50, 
66,70,  82,  88,  112,  1 1 8,  122, 
142,  144,  145,  154,  162,  166, 
207. 

Winterberries,  168. 


222 


INDEX 


206. 


Winter  buds,  1 1 . 

Winter  gales,  I  57, 

Wintergreen,  3. 

Winter  music,  163. 

Winter  visitants,  8. 

Winter  walk,  156,  159. 

Winter  woods,  157,  161. 

Winter  wren,  49,  66,  119. 

Wire  worm,  89. 

Witch-hazel,  58,  125,  145. 

Witch-grass,  64. 

Wolf,  136. 

Wood-anemones,  13,  20,  21,  67. 

Wood-betony,  21. 

Woodchuck,  15,  136,  143-145, 


'55; 


1 66. 


Woodcraft,  136,  149. 
Woodland,  201. 
Woodland  birds,  62. 
Woodland  flowers,  6 1,  62,  67, 

80. 

Wood  life,  187. 
Wood-lilies,  113. 
Woodpecker,  34,  160. 
Wood-pewee,  1 18. 


Woods,  32,  38,  41-43,  47>48» 
52,  56,  61,  62,  67,  80,  104, 
115,  122-124,  I29>  136-138, 
140-142,  147,  149,  153,  154, 
157,  163,  165,  166,  185,  186. 

Woodsia,  67,  170. 

Woodsman,  187,  188,  193. 

Wood-sorrel,  63. 

Woodthrush,  30,  42,  46. 

Wordsworth,  173. 

Workers,  80,  81,95,99, 105,  108. 

Worm,  4,  15,  89-91. 

Wounded,  1 1 1 . 

Wreck,  207. 

Wrens,  30,  31,  47,  49,  56,  66, 
119,  1 8 1. 

Yapping,  191. 
Yellow  ants,  94,  112. 
Yellow  birch,  32,  158. 
Yellow  pine,  6. 
Yellowpoll,  119. 
Yellow-throated  vireo,  36. 
Yellow  violets,  21. 
Yellow  warbler,  31,  37. 


223 


ff 


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